


Family, Duty, Honour

by Lannister418



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adventure, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fifth Blight, Grey Wardens, Revenge, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-02-27 22:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13258230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lannister418/pseuds/Lannister418
Summary: The Kingdom of Ferelden. Early Spring. 9:30 DragonRumours of Darkspawn massing in the southern wilds has the nobles of Ferelden preparing to join King Cailan's grand campaign in the south.For 19yo Aengus Cousland, younger son of Bryce Cousland, Teryn of Highever, the arrival of his prospective bride - for an 'informal' pre-Betrothal visit - is a matter for more immediate anxieties; most especially, will he make an absolute fool of himself and receive a humiliating rejection?For 17yo Sophia, daughter of His Excellence Count Boniface Trevelyan di Castrotrevali of the great Free-Marcher State of Ostwick, this is an adventure - an excursion to a quaintly provincial foreign land, home of the infamous 'Dog-Lords' - but also a sign of how seriously her Lord Father takes this match.Neither of them could anticipate the betrayals to come, the different journeys they will endure, or the things they will have to do to survive as Ferelden is overtaken by civil war and the looming peril of the Fifth Blight...





	1. Here comes the Bride

“ _Will_ you stop fidgeting!”

Aengus jerked his fingers away from his throat, the tone of his mother’s voice making him feel all of five years old again

“But it’s...” he began, the attempt at an excuse leaping automatically to his lips

“The collar is not too tight, the shirt does not scratch, and the tunic fits perfectly...” Teryna Eleanor sighed, turning to adjust the hang of her younger son’s cloak “Just take a deep breath and relax.  You’re lucky Count Boniface agreed to this. Fergus didn’t get to meet Oriana until she arrived at the Chantry, remember?”

Aengus nodded a mute agreement.  Yes, he was very lucky.  Few younger sons, even if their father was Teryn of Highever, could look forward to a bride who called the Queen of Antiva and the Prince-Consort of Aylesleigh ‘cousin’ and whose family lineage traced an unbroken line back to the Imperium.

He was lucky marriage was an option at all, that Pa hadn’t simply handed him over to the Templars; the usual fate for a second son.  Perhaps the losses Teryn Bryce suffered during the campaign against Orlais inclined him to value all his children more than another Lord might...

_Lucky me…_

The clear blast of a trumpet followed by the clattering of hooves on cobbles and the sound of the house-guards snapping to attention pulled his thoughts back to the courtyard and the figures riding through the gate.  He took another deep breath, a cold sweat dappling the back of his neck.

He felt a nudge in his side, catching an urgent nod from his brother as the party reached the foot of the steps and servants ran forward with mounting blocks.   

“Don’t run and, for the Maker’s sweet sake, _don’t trip_!” Fergus whispered, giving him a gentle push forward. 

Pa was already down and extending an arm to assist the slender girl in green velvet to dismount.  Aengus could only catch a glimpse of her face under the wide brim of the riding-hat; a firm, well-shaped chin, and delicate lips parted in a slight smile of thanks.  He drew closer, wiping his hand – hopefully unobtrusively – on the seat of his breeches; a sweaty palm wasn’t the first impression he wanted to give…

Teryn Bryce turned to his younger son with an encouraging smile

“Lady Sophia, permit me to present my son; Lord Aengus…”

Lady Sophia raised her face to his and the carefully prepared words of welcome evaporated before they reached his tongue

_Oh… Maker… She… she’s beautiful…_

The portrait had done her justice; the fine-boned, heart-shaped face and clear complexion, but captured nothing of what she really looked like; the lightness of her step, the faint bloom on her cheeks, the liveliness of her presence.  She stood there, head slightly tilted with the light of amused curiosity in those bright violet eyes, smiling a silent encouragement as he tried to force words out… 

“M-my Lady… you… I mean… I… We are…” He could feel every eye in the courtyard on him, sense his father’s building impatience without even looking at him.  It was Lady Sophia who brought his torment to a merciful conclusion, stepping forward with one hand extended.

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Lord Aengus…” there was a graceful, sing-song, lilt to her Fereldan and she had a little trouble pronouncing his name “Would you be so kind as to introduce me to the rest of your family.”

Aengus nodded gratefully, remembering to keep his mouth closed, and led her up the steps – Pa following behind – as servants and retainers busied themselves with the luggage wagon.

###

“ _Fabricante!_ This place stinks of wet dog…” Marisol wrinkled her nose as she unfastened the clasps of the travelling-gown “I have incense in my bag…”

“It’s not that bad!” Sophia laughed as she gratefully eased the weight of the heavy velvet from her shoulders.  It did smell a bit… musty… she had to admit; but Great-Aunt Lucille warned her not to expect too much from Ferelden, that even the highest nobles lived in a way she might find a trifle ‘austere’ compared to the comforts of the Trevelyan villas and mansions.

Austere was one way of putting it, although nowhere near as bad as she’d been led to believe.  The guest chambers were comfortable; well-furnished and clean with brightly coloured tapestries livening the grey stone walls, everything eminently practical and sturdy with little hint of excess or frivolity.  Privately she found it restful, reminiscent of her room at the Cloister school, if only it wasn’t so cold.  She pulled a furred chamber robe from one of the trunks and wrapped it around her as Marisol rummaged in her bags to find something to sweeten the air.

“He is handsome…” her maid said with a sly smile, looking up from her quest “Even with the red hair, and such broad shoulders…”

“And hardly able to string two words together.”  Sophia strolled over to the window, looking down at the garden still struggling to seize hold of Spring; the lemon trees were already blooming at Castrotrevalli “I know Fereldans are supposed to be taciturn but…”

The brief reception in the Hall had been a bit of a chore, but these things always were… even a supposedly ‘informal’ visit like this.  Lord Aengus might have problems finishing his sentences, but he was undeniably good-looking, with his bright green eyes and lightly freckled face; although Mother Hortensia grumbled that he ‘looked like a plough-boy’.  Plough-boy or not, Father had high hopes for this match – ones he had explained at length – with King Cailan still childless after five years of marriage, Teryn Bryce was next in line to the Fereldan Throne and stood a league above the rest of their nobility; the prestige of the Cousland name and titles made even a second son an attractive proposition.   

Sophia smiled at her reflection in the leaded window-glass.  She wasn’t completely naïve; even at 17 she had been in Society long enough to know how things worked for women of her rank.  The Trevelyan’s power and influence were built on a history of marrying wisely and well, something instilled in her repeatedly as she made the rounds of Presentation at the Marcher Courts and gave the traditional Three Curtseys before her Royal Cousins of Antiva. ‘The marriage-bed has won us more than any battlefield’ Papa always said, and he would not have permitted this visit if a union with the Teryn’s son was not of the greatest advantage.

She had to admit, if this were Papa’s preferred match it was not a displeasing one.  Lord Aengus might not be spouting improvised verses comparing her eyes to a variety of gemstones, but he seemed nice enough underneath the awkwardness and had a gentle smile.  She could think of worse faces to wake up to.  Sophia sighed and pulled the furs a little tighter as Marisol sprinkled some incense on the brazier, still muttering about mud and wet dogs; perhaps after the wedding she could tempt a _tapissier_ or two from Hercinia or Seleny to make the place a little more habitable.

“…and the bath!  Wooden! Like a wine-vat cut in two!” Marisol’s litany of complaints about Fereldan barbarism continued as she unpinned Sophia’s hair

“So long as the water is hot, and I don’t have to share it with anyone, I’m quite happy…”  The sea-crossing from Ostwick to Ferelden had been rough and the idea of a long, relaxing, soak before dinner was very appealing – even if it was a wooden tub. Sophia glanced up at her maid with a little smile “Why don’t you go and find that guard with the hazel eyes who couldn’t stop looking at you? That might cheer you up.”

The maid giggled as she placed the hairpins in a box and gathered up an armful of towels

“I have heard that Fereldan men are… impressive” she glanced slyly at her mistress “The young Signor certainly looks well filled-out.”

“Marisol!” Sophia gave the young Antivan a look of mock outrage “Mother Hortensia would have you whipped for such an indecency.”

Marisol shrugged as she headed through to the adjacent room to complete the preparations for her mistress’s bath

“Perhaps Mother Hortensia should find a well-filled out Fereldan for herself…  It might make her less sour all the time”

###

“You’re doing well, Pup!  You just need to remember to breathe and relax”

Teryn Bryce gave his younger son’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. ‘Doing well’ was a bit of an overstatement, but at least the boy hadn’t passed out or vomited from nervous tension yet.

“I’m trying, Pa; but the more I try…”  he took a couple of gulps of air “Was it like this when you first met Ma?”

Bryce laughed out loud

“When I first met your mother, it was just after she’d sunk an Orlesian warship and I’d been raiding the supply lines to White Hills – so there was less talk about fashions and more about tactics; but she did look magnificent in armour.” He pulled Aengus close for a re-assuring hug “Just be yourself, don’t try to act like some Nevarran Dandy or Antivan Bravo – she’s probably sick of all that bad poetry and eye-fluttering.”

Aengus glanced at his father, even though both men were the same height it still felt like he should be looking up to him

“What if I end up acting like a total idiot and she says no?”

Bryce shook his head fondly

“You won’t, and if she says no – then she’s the idiot”

He looked over to where Sophia stood at the centre of a knot of women; Oriana and Lady Loren gushing compliments over her gown.  It was daring by Fereldan standards, with its low neckline and close-fitted bodice, but the blues and greens – the exact shades of the Cousland heraldry – offset by the loosely draped scarf of delicate silver tissue, were a discreet, courtly, compliment to her hosts.  Taking Aengus by the arm he led him over, excusing himself to the other women

“Lady Sophia; Aengus would very much like to show you the gardens. Around this time of year, they look their best at sunset…”

“I’d be delighted, my Lord” she smiled graciously at the two men “I’ll just go and rouse Mother Hortensia; I think Fereldan desserts are a bit rich for her.”

###

“This probably isn’t what you were expecting… I’m sorry” 

They walked slowly, side by side but a respectable hand’s-breadth apart, along the gravelled path; Mother Hortensia a few paces behind – far enough to grant them privacy of conversation while guarding against the faintest hint of impropriety.

Sophia smiled, she was losing count of the apologies by now

“Do you mean the preparations for war, or you?” she asked, with a slight tilt of her head, provoking a startled glance from Aengus

“I… well, I suppose I meant the war but…” he cleared his throat “Am… I… not what you expected?”

Sophia paused, looking off across the darkening lawns, then turned with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“Oh, definitely not…” she tried hard to not to laugh at his dismayed expression “You’ve not farted, belched or wiped your nose on your sleeve once all evening; and you smile a lot more than your portrait suggested – but then, everyone looks constipated in those…”

Aengus let out a long slow breath, unsure if he was being teased or if she were trying to put him at his ease. 

“You… you looked beautiful in yours…” he said carefully “I thought, well… I thought perhaps they might have exaggerated a bit”

She glanced up at him with the faintest arching of an eyebrow

“And did they…?”

“No!” it came out a lot louder than he intended and his cheeks reddened “I mean… you’re very beautiful… I’m making a real mess of this, aren’t I?”

He flinched as her fingers twined around his, in defiance of Mother Hortensia’s reproving cough

“Just a little, but it’s a nice mess…” she whispered, leaning closer “You know, if we run fast enough, we should be able to get five minutes to ourselves before she catches up; she gets very slow after dinner.”

Aengus gaped at her in astonishment, jaw dropping, then grinned as he saw she was being perfectly serious

“There’s a fountain and benches at the end of the path” he squeezed her hand gently “Race you!”

It was a short run, by his standards, and Aengus barely broke a sweat as he raced towards the fountain; Sophia following behind with Mother Hortensia’s aggrieved shouts fading away.  He was already leaning against a tree, still grinning, as Sophia joined him; slightly flushed and gasping

“I win!”

“Not… fair…” she huffed, catching her breath “You… don’t have… corsets”

“How do you know?” he laughed, patting his stomach “I could be fat as a tusket under this”

The mischief banished the awkwardness and anxiety; for all the grandeur of her name and titles she was just a girl, a beautiful girl who seemed to like him and who he could really imagine liking back.

“Oh, you’re not” she laughed “That’s the first thing Marisol would have noticed… well, the second.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway, I still won. What’s my prize?”

Aengus' eyes widened as Sophia stood on tiptoe and, resting her hands on his shoulders, brushed her lips against his

"Wha... why did you...?" he gasped, surprised but far from unhappy

Sophia dropped her gaze, suddenly shy, the hint of a blush creeping into her cheeks "I wanted to see if I liked it. I will be expected to kiss my husband, after all..."

Aengus throat tightened, the nervousness flooding back. She was so close he could feel her warmth through his tunic, smell the faint musk of her scent. He prayed she wasn’t close enough to be aware of how his body was reacting

“Aaand...” his voice cracked “and… did you? Like it, I mean…”

She smiled up at him, hands still on his shoulders, moving closer with artful guile

“I don’t know, I think I might have to try again…”

He fought the urge to grab her and pull her tight as her lips brushed his for a second time and a red-faced Mother Hortensia appeared around the corner

“Donna Sophia!” She panted, clutching at her bosom and gasping for breath “Shame on you! What would your Lord Father say?”

Sophia stepped back from Aengus with an arch little laugh as he tried to tug the hem of his tunic lower

“He’d probably say you should have fewer creamed custards at dinner, then I wouldn’t be able to escape so easily” She looked across at Aengus, still trying to regain his composure “Shall we get back to the others before she begins the Sermon on Chastity?”

Aengus hesitated, aware of Mother Hortensia’s glare burning into him as if she’d caught him with his breeches round his knees.  Fergus was right; Sophia’s chaperone did look like someone had put a wimple on a Mabari and shoved a wasp up its arse

“I’ll…” he hesitated, biting his lip and glancing off to one side “I’ll catch up with you in a moment… if that’s all right…”

Mother Hortensia walked alongside Sophia, shaking her head with a small sigh

“You are becoming brazen, child… you’re not married to the boy yet and I am still answerable to your Lord Father.”

“And Papa wants me to get to know him…” she slipped her arm through the old Cleric’s and closed the distance between them.  Mother Tensie might be a bit of a wet blanket sometimes, but she was _her_ wet blanket and had been since she was a babe in arms “I can hardly do that if I don’t get any time alone with him.”

The old woman snorted

“He looked as if he was ready to get to know you _very_ well!”

“Your Reverence!” Sophia laughed “Now who’s become brazen?”

Mother Hortensia tightened her grip on her charge’s arm and smiled across at her fondly

“Oh, you’ll be a married woman soon, Chaffinch; then you won’t have to worry about me brooding over you.”

“Well, if Lord Aengus is as ‘ready’ as you think there might be a whole new brood for you to coo over before too long.”

They heard footsteps on the gravel behind them and turned to see Aengus approaching, something clutched in his hands

“Your Reverence, can I have five minutes… please?”

He looked entreatingly at the priest and she allowed the façade to melt, just a little… the boy was earnest, and charming in his clumsy way.  Not the match she would have wanted for her Little Chaffinch, but this was Count Boniface’s will…

“You may, my child…” she conceded, a hint of warmth in her voice “But I will be watching.”

Aengus hesitated as Mother Hortensia withdrew to a bench a few paces away, then came a step closer; holding out his cupped hands and clinging onto his fast-evaporating confidence

“It’s the first one to bloom… Highever Roses are s-supposed to be the finest in Ferelden” he opened his hands to reveal the rose, it’s petals almost black in the gathering twilight “I want you to have it… as a gift… because… because…”

He stalled, the words that had been there just a moment ago drying up.  Sophia reached out and took the rose from him; raising it to her face like the Holy Censer and inhaling deeply.

“Aengus, it’s beautiful – truly beautiful… thank you…”

She had been given flowers before, singly or in great bouquets, often with a scroll of verse or some piece of jewellery tied to the stem – once accompanied by a pair of bards singing an ode to her beauty; although one of them _did_ try to assassinate the Maréchal de Val Tabor after supper, a gross breach of etiquette which saw that suitor lucky to leave with his hide intact.  None of them had touched her like this, a simple gift without flourish or eloquence.  She looked up at Aengus as he stood there, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck, trying not to stare.  There was a kindness in his eyes, an honesty that needed no protestations of love and adoration.

“Do you know how Marcher ladies accept the gift of a rose?” she asked, dropping her eyes back to the flower in her hands.

Aengus shook his head, certain that the pounding of his heart must be audible.  Sophia smiled and inhaled the scent again

“Well, they can return it; which means an end to the affair…” Aengus tensed visibly then relaxed as she showed no sign of handing it back “They can wear it in their hair, which means ‘I am promised to another, but am interested…’ or…”

She paused, giving him a coy glance.  He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, forcing himself to speak

“Or… or what?”

“Or they can wear it here…” she slipped the stem carefully under the neckline of her bodice so that the bloom sat perfectly in the valley of her breasts. “I think that looks quite pretty, don’t you?”

“Ve… very… very pretty” he was scarcely able to breathe; of course, her gesture required him to look but…

_Oh Maker, don’t stare! Don’t! Stare!_

“Wh…wh…what does that mean?” he blurted out, pulling his attention back to her eyes and trying to take the deep breaths Pa, and everyone else, kept recommending

“It means…” she smiled briefly in the direction of Mother Hortensia then kissed him on the cheek “It means ‘I am yours alone, if you so wish it’. I think I will leave it there, it _does_ look pretty…”

###

“And _what_ are you smirking at?” Teryna Eleanor murmured in her husband’s ear.  He nodded towards Aengus and Sophia entering the Hall, her arm through his, and the splash of crimson at her breast “Ah, I see that more than the roses are starting to bloom…”

Bryce could feel the relief flowing through his wife

“I told you Pup wouldn’t let us down…” he chuckled, discreetly sliding his arm around her waist “He may not have the words, but he has the heart.”

“What was the first gift I gave you?” Eleanor mused aloud “There was so much happening in those days…”

“A steel-armed crossbow with lever-winch, although the stock was inlaid with mother-of-pearl” He looked back to Sophia and Aengus, shaking his head slightly “Those were different times, dangerous ones; I pray they can enjoy at least a few summers of peace.”

 

 

 


	2. A Perfect Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A marriage union between two great noble houses cannot happen quickly; Aengus and Sophia will have a long, frustrating, wait but are determined to make the most of what little time they have before she must return to Ostwick.  
> Meanwhile, House Cousland must deal with the imminent threat facing Ferelden and yet more visitors...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Note for existing readers***  
> This is an insert to fill what I felt was too great a time-jump at the start of the story, and to give a little more space to establish the growing connection between Aengus and Sophia before events take their inevitable turn.

“So, what did you learn last night…” Sophia asked as Marisol poured her chocolate, laughing softly at her maid’s wicked smile “apart from how… impressive… Fereldan men are?”

The girl set the chocolate pot down on the tray and adjusted her mistress’s pillows before handing her the cup; speaking quietly in Antivan

“The Lord Aengus is well spoken of; mischievous, but not unkindly so; fond of the hunt, skilled with the blade and…” she glanced cautiously through the doorway at the maids preparing Sophia’s bath, although they would be unable to understand even if they overheard “not always as awkward around women as he might seem, although he does not have the reputation of a libertine”

Sophia suppressed a giggle, her eyes sparkling with humour at Marisol attempting a prim little pout.  Her own chastity had been zealously guarded, as befitted the daughter of a great noble house, but it was a relief to know her prospective husband would not be coming to their marriage bed a complete novice – and that he was well-regarded by those who served him.  Lord Aengus did not seem the sort to hide a mean spirit, but you could not always judge a man by a pleasing smile and a fair face.

She took a sip of her chocolate

“Anything else?”

Marisol gave a snort of amusement

“Hmmph! Like all Fereldans he worships dogs and has one of his own that he dotes upon… so you will be sharing his affections with a great muddy beast that stinks of old carpet”

There were worse things to share a man’s affection with, Sophia pondered as Marisol continued to fuss over the pillows and chatter about her late night ‘conversation’ with one of Teryn Bryce’s House-Guards; her increasingly spicy story quickly ‘shushed’ as Mother Hortensia came bustling in

“Still abed, Chaffinch?” she chided “The Mass-bell will be ringing soon…”

“Is it a Feastday?” Sophia asked, frowning slightly with the effort of recall as the maids turned down the quilts and handed her a chamber-robe; perhaps some local saint or event was being commemorated.  The old priest rolled her eyes and tutted

“Lord Fergus is leading the Cousland forces south to join with the King; Mass is being sung for their well-being and safe return” she shook her head with a rueful smile “I told you last night; the thought of marriage is making you a scatterbrain, my child…”

###

Why shouldn’t it scatter my brains for a while? Sophia thought as she scooped up a little soap with her fingers and worked it into a rich lather; smiling as, through the slightly open door, she heard Mother Hortensia fussing with the maids over which gown would be appropriate for Mass.  It wasn’t every day you agreed to marriage, especially not a marriage that felt so agreeable, to a handsome young warrior lord in a land where men still wore steel more often than silk.  There were the inevitable formalities to be agreed before the formal betrothal could be announced, all that tiresome business of dowries and marriage-portions, and at the very least they would need to wait until the King’s campaign in the south was concluded – but all the men seemed to think that would be a matter of weeks, rather than months. 

Humming a few snatches of song, she picked up the sponge and began rinsing the suds away…

_Lady Sophia Cousland of Highever_

It had a nice sound to it…

###

“Concentrate!” Fergus laughed as he blocked Aengus with his shield “I thought you wanted to spar, not dance...”

Aengus adjusted his grip on the wooden training sword

“I'm a better dancer than you anyday” he grinned, aiming a blow which Fergus dodged, responding with a stinging swipe across his backside.

“Not today, that's for sure” Fergus put down his sword and shield. Crossing to the well, he dipped his hands into the bucket on the edge and sluiced water over his face “Why don't you tell me what's on your mind, in case I haven't guessed!”

Aengus joined the brother at the well. Fergus was right, he was distracted this morning and not just because the beautiful girl from Ostwick had agreed to marry him. His brother would be leaving for Ostagar in a few hours, leading the Cousland bannermen to join the King’s Army in the great battle to destroy the Darkspawn Horde. Pa was only awaiting the arrival of Uncle Rendon before marching south himself, leaving Aengus officially in charge of the Terynir in his absence.  It was frustrating and terrifying at the same time.

“I wish I was marching with you...” he muttered, knowing how infantile he sounded “It doesn't seem fair”

“I know” Fergus shook his head with a woeful expression “I should be the one tucked up warm in bed while you wade balls-deep through freezing mud and horseshite to hack down a few stinking Darkspawn.”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it!” Aengus laughed, splashing his brother with a palmful of water and ducking the playful cuff aimed at his head in response

“Pa wouldn't leave you in charge if he didn't think you weren't up to it! If any serious business needs dealt with you can be sure that Ma will set you straight.  All you have to do is make sure the place doesn't burn down and that dog of yours behaves himself... where is he, by the way?”

Aengus looked across the training ground. Neither Scrapper, nor the hambone he'd been gnawing on, were anywhere to be seen...

“Oh shit!!!”

“Pray he’s not got into the game-larder again…” Fergus called after him as he raced off “or Nan’ll have both your hides!”

###

Scrapper had nosed the bolt on the game-larder door halfway out of its socket by the time Aengus got there and led him away, ‘wuffing’ indignantly; he’d almost solved the new puzzle Old Woman set him, now he’d have to start all over again…

“You’ll be the death of us both one day, Scrap…” Aengus muttered as he coaxed the stubborn dog towards his kennel, feeling his heart sink as the third Mass-bell began to ring.  Of all the days to be late… Leaping up the stairs to his chambers, three at a time, he pulled on a clean tunic and breeches; frantically lacing them up as he ran back down and along the hallway towards the Castle Chantry. 

Mother Mallol was already singing the Introit as he tried to sneak in – a pointless effort given the door’s unforgiving creak and the walk down to the family stalls near the Altar; Aengus could feel every eye on him, but his attention was especially held by Pa’s intense and increasingly pointed glaring.  Looking down, he was horrified to see half the tail of his shirt still sticking out of his part-laced breeches.  Hurriedly tucking everything away, burning with embarrassment, he took his place beside Fergus.  His brother’s face was devoutly buried in his hands, but the shaking of his shoulders betrayed the illusion of piety.  It didn’t help that, across the aisle, he could see Sophia’s lynx-eyed Antivan maid whispering something in her mistress’s ear; causing the girl to hide her own mirth behind a close scrutiny of her prayer-book.

He bowed his head, groaning inwardly and praying as much to been preserved from making a further idiot of himself as for the well-being of the men marching to battle...

Despite confident proclamations of certain victory, it was an emotional morning and Aengus felt a deep sadness at watching his brother riding down the road at the head of the Cousland knights and men-at-arms.  This would be the biggest battle a Fereldan army had fought since King Maric and Teryn Loghain’s victory at the River Dane; he wished he could be there, fighting with Pa and Fergus alongside King Cailan and Ferelden’s great hero, but he also knew full well why he couldn’t.  If his father and brother fell on the field, then Aengus would have to rule Highever as its Teryn.  It wasn’t a thought he wanted to linger on.

Oriana retired to her chambers with Oren after Fergus left and, despite Pa’s attempts to keep a conversation going with Sophia, lunch was a solemn and almost silent affair.  This wasn’t the visit she was expecting, Aengus thought, as he watched her picking anxiously at her food.  He ought to find something to brighten the day for her and then it occurred to him… Of course! Why hadn’t he done this before now?

###

“So, this is the culprit? But he’s such a modest, well-behaved fellow…”  Sensing praise, the dog perked up his ears; the short, stubby, tail pounding the lawn.  She’d heard of the famous Mabari Hounds, of course, they were the first thing that came to most people's minds when Ferelden was mentioned.  This was the first time she'd ever been near to one and, despite his friendly expression, it was a little intimidating.  Sitting on his haunches, the top of his head was almost level with her shoulder and the muscles under the brindled coat were solid and powerful; his liquid brown eyes alert, bright with an intelligence Sophia had never seen in an animal before – and in remarkably few people.

“He's always on his best behaviour around someone new...” Aengus grinned, patting Scrapper's back “Just wait until he gets to know you!”

Scrapper snorted reproachfully, and Sophia's eyes widened a little

“Does he... understand... what we're saying?”

“Oh, more than he let's on - that's for certain...” Aengus reached into his pocket and pulled out a chunk of the spiced sausage he’d filched from the lunch-table.  Scrapper’s eyes lit up and he began to drool, this was a rare treat!  Aengus broke off a bit and gave it to Sophia “Hold it out to him… don’t be afraid, he won’t bite”

She knelt beside him on the grass, gently holding out the piece of sausage on the palm of her hand; Scrapper leaned forward slightly and scooped it into his mouth with a single flick of his massive pink tongue and began chewing happily, Sophia laughed with delight - scratching him behind his ears.  Aengus could feel himself smiling.  He’d been worried Scrapper wouldn’t take to Sophia or, worse, she’d be scared of him; instead the big soppy mutt was rolling onto his back for belly-rubs, his favourite way of showing he’d accepted a new friend. 

“Oh, you’re adorable” she cooed “and a terror to your enemies I would wager!”

Scrapper barked happily in confirmation; New Friend smelled of flowers and fresh-cut grass and he could tell from Master’s musk that he liked her very much.  Perhaps if she was being adopted into the Pack there would be lots more spicy snacks and belly-rubs in his future…

“He’s a warrior through and through” Aengus laughed, scratching Snappers’s chest “but with his friends he’s gentle as a lamb…”

Sophie smiled at him, letting her fingers brush against his and linger there

“Does he get that from you…?”

This was daring, but Mother Hortensia still dozed in her chair under the willow tree.  They could afford to seize a moment…

Aengus bit his lip nervously and slid his hand over hers, covering it easily. She could feel the calluses from long hours of sword practise - the warm, softer, skin between them.  Her breath quickened, and her cheeks grew hot; his touch was so gentle, she could easily imagine what it would be like when he slipped the gown away from her shoulders on their wedding night…

“Sophia… I… I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon…” she would be here until the end of the week, another four days, but he knew those days would rush past “There’s so much I want to know about you, so much I want to ask…”

“Are you sure?” she asked, with a coy little smile “I could be the most terrible shrew…”

“Now I know that’s not true” Aengus glanced at her shyly, his hand closing tenderly around hers “You’re kind and gentle; and I’m afraid you’ll find a big lummox like me very dull”

“What’s a ‘lummox’?” she giggled; Fereldan was full of these funny little words her tutors never mentioned, but which people around the castle used a lot “Is it like ‘bollocks’?”

He burst out laughing

“No… Oh Maker, no… nothing like that; bollocks are… well… it’s a swear word, Fergus uses it a lot even though Ma tries to stop him.  It means… it means” he dropped his voice to a whisper “a man’s… balls”

“Oh!” she leaned in conspiratorially and murmured in his ear “Back home we say _Palle!_ ”

They both laughed as Scrapper turned onto his stomach, huffing at their ignoring of him and wriggled out to go and find new scents

“Now he’s in a sulk” she pouted “and you still haven’t told me what a ‘lummox’ is”

Aengus stood, helping her to rise, and brushed a few blades of grass off his boots;

“A lummox is a big lazy oaf, like me, who comes running into Mass late with his breeches half-laced and his shirt sticking out.”

Sophia pondered this new piece of information, slipping her arm though his as they walked over to rouse Mother Hortensia

“Then I don’t think I would find him the slightest bit dull” she concluded “In fact I think he’s every bit as delightful as his dog”

###

Ser Gilmore was waiting for them as they returned to the Keep; the young knight appearing simultaneously anxious and elated

“Your father wants to see you in his study; Arl Rendon has arrived, so has Warden-Commander Duncan…” this latter piece of information seemed to give Ser Gilmore particular satisfaction.  He turned apologetically to Sophia “I’m afraid I must steal him away from you, for a while at least…”

Sophia unhooked her arm from Aengus’ with a good-natured pout

“Return him to me soon, Messere; we Marchers are noted for our jealousy!”

Ser Gilmore responded with a polite bow

“Upon my honour, My Lady; he’ll be blushing and stammering at your side before you’ve even noted his absence…”

“Why’d you have to say that?” Aengus elbowed his friend in the ribs once they were out of sight of the two women “You make me sound like a total idiot”

“I can’t improve on the job you’re already doing” Gilmore laughed, then hesitated; scratching behind his ear with his thumb “Look, Aengus… if the Warden Commander’s here then this might be it… the thing I’ve been waiting for”

Ser Gilmore had competed in the Grand Tourney at Ansberg last year, one of a select company of Fereldan knights who’d travelled to the Marches to compete in the event; still the greatest display of chivalry and martial prowess in Thedas – not even Orlais had anything to rival it – just to take part was an honour and an accomplishment.  He’d not made the ranks of a Champion, but he had come to the attention of the Grey Wardens present and confided to Aengus that he anticipated being recruited to the Order any day soon. 

“Should I congratulate you now or wait until you have your shiny new armour?” Aengus clapped Gilmore on the back but his good-humour masked anxiety.  It was said that many who left to join the Grey Wardens were never seen again and that some of their practices were scarcely to be tolerated in decent, Andrastian, lands.  They’d been banished from Ferelden over two hundred years ago, for reasons still shrouded in mystery, and only allowed to return the year before his birth.  According to Aldous, the Fereldan branch of the Order remained few in number and held in low regard by some, but Wardens had always been sure of a welcome at the Couslands’ door…

The knight shook his head with a nervous smile

“I can’t be sure that’s why he’s here; he could just be travelling south with your Father but, if he is… Aengus… we might never see each other again”

Aengus swallowed hard; so much was happening at once – Sophia, the war and now this… Gilmore was his best friend…

“You… you won’t be vanishing overnight, Gil - even if he does recruit you” he managed to say “There’ll be time for a proper goodbye…”

“Yeah, one last hangover and a lecture from your mother…” Ser Gilmore gave him a mock-punch to the shoulder “Come on, we don’t want to keep them waiting any longer.”

###

“Another one, Ma Donna?” Jiovan asked with a cock of his head, adjusting the tuning pegs of his lute “A Gaillarde perhaps, or a Tourdion?”

He strummed his fingers across the strings with a graceful flourish as Mother Hortensia shut her prayer-book with a snap. 

“It is time for My Lady to retire” she scowled, but with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes “so you, rascal, can take your leave and bid good-night!”

The elf hopped off the window-seat with a courtly bow

“As you command, most-revered Mother, and I depart with a stately Pavane to sooth your gentle spirits.”

Sophia was used to this, but it was still too funny for words; Mother Hortensia’s show of disapproval and Jiovan’s cheerful mockery – a ritual performed every evening as dutifully as Compline.  The priest shook her head, tutting, as the minstrel played himself out of the bedchamber; his steps carefully measured in time to the music.  She closed the door firmly as Sophia held out her arms, allowing the maids to begin unlacing her gown.

“You give that fellow too much license…” she warned “It could cause talk”

Sophia caught Marisol’s eye and tried not to laugh. 

“And you worry too much; everyone knows he only has eyes for Ser Garath… amongst other things”

“Chaffinch! You should not say such things, or even think them!” Mother Hortensia’s shock was unfeigned, and she re-opened her prayer-book “Now you should attend to Our Lady’s words while you prepare for bed and think only decent thoughts…”

Decent thoughts? All she could think of was the touch of Aengus’ hand on hers and the glances he gave her throughout dinner, as that dull little Arl Howe droned out his congratulations; Aengus might stumble over his words, but his eyes were eloquent.  Once she had found a book of ‘forbidden’ Tevene poetry hidden under a cushion in Mama’s boudoir; “The Heart’s Rose Garden” – all the more wicked because the author was reputed to be a Magister – most of it was awful rubbish, disappointing really, but one couplet caught her imagination…

_Alacri vulti et hoc meum_

_Desiderium nudatum_

‘And with that ardent look, my heart lay bare and yearning’

The words stayed with her even though, until tonight, she’d thought the Magister-poet had exaggerated the effect a single glance could have.  She could feel that _Desiderium_ deep inside her and it was a torment. It would only be weeks, everyone assured her, before the war was over and the marriage contracts sealed.  Papa promised the wedding would be the most splendid Denerim had seen since the nuptials of Cailan and Anora, the marriage of a Cousland and a Trevelyan could only be a grand affair of state, but if Aengus were to come to her door right now and snatch her away to some little village Chantry – to be wed by a sleepy-eyed priest with cowherds as their witnesses – she would go without a second thought if it mean lying with him before the morrow.

She closed her eyes with a sigh as Marisol finished tying the ribbons of the nightgown and began brushing her hair.  No doubt, after all were abed, the Antivan girl would seek out her hazel-eyed Fereldan guardsman to lie before him bare and yearning.  Sophia envied her that freedom, but Signor Raffali always said it was only natural to believe that others enjoyed a happiness we did not possess.  She should count herself fortunate…

Sleep was drawing her eyes closed as the coverlets were pulled up to her shoulders.  The bedlinen was fresh and cool, the pillows pleasingly firm and she nestled deeper into its gentle embrace as Mother Hortensia bent and kissed her forehead

“Sleep well, little Chaffinch; Andraste bless you with the sweetest dreams and keep you safe until morning…”

###

“What are your orders, My Lord? Are we to…”

A sharp glance from Arl Rendon silenced his captain and he returned to his thoughts.  This was inconvenient; he’d not anticipated the Couslands to have so many guests.  His agents in the household should have informed him, that was why he’d engaged them, but they would soon have reason to regret their failure.  Lady Landra and her boy were of no consequence; Bann Loren was a fool, little regarded among his peers, and a craven one at that – easily bribed or threatened into compliance.  The Warden-Commander? Now that worked in his favour. Loghain already believed the Wardens to be nothing more than pawns of the Orlesian Court and the presence of one at Highever would be proof that stern action against the Couslands was necessary

The Marcher girl? She _was_ a problem… in theory it was just one more throat to cut, albeit a pretty one, her handful of guards and retainers no more a challenge than any of Bryce’s houseguards but the possible consequences were… unacceptable.  Her father was no mere merchant-baron or junior Praetor; the Lord of House Trevelyan was little more than a hairs-breadth short of royalty, with allies and resources many ruling princes would envy. A man who could raise the whole of the Free Marches to avenge the death of his daughter. 

Howe felt a surge of bitterness.  Bryce had chosen well, no wonder he’d spurned the suggestion of a match with Delilah when he such a glittering prize in sight.  Well, that prize was within his now and could win him unexpected advantages.

It was not without danger, but he had been dreaming of this moment ever since that _unfortunate_ storm swallowed up Maric’s ship.  It had fallen together so well, one might almost believe it was the Maker’s Will.  Without deigning to look at the captain he spoke swiftly and with certainty.

“We proceed as planned, but the Lady Sophia is not to be harmed; she must be taken alive, and… I cannot stress this firmly enough… with her honour untainted.  The man who forgets this will eat his own parts before he’s fed to the dogs. Am I quite clear on this?

“Yes, My Lord” the man assured him “And… what of her servants?”

The Arl shrugged dismissively

“They can die with the others.”


	3. The Road Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the days following Rendon Howe's treachery at Highever Castle, Aengus and Sophia are on two different journeys with equally uncertain futures; neither knowing that the other survived the massacre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Warning***  
> References to violence and the murder of a minor

They’d been on the move for two days now, following the line of Lake Calenhad; avoiding the Highway in case of pursuit. The going was rough and slow, but Duncan didn’t want the risk of Howe’s scouts picking up their trail. Once they were past Calenhad Docks it should be safe to move onto the road.

The pot bubbled away over the fire.  Rabbits were plenty in the hills, so there was no danger of going hungry. Duncan crumbled a pinch of salt into the broth and filled a bowl, taking it over to the boy hunched silently against a nearby rock.

Aengus had barely spoken and not eaten since they left Highever. He looked back once, at the flames consuming his home, then set himself to follow the Warden like a man moving in a daze.

Duncan had seen this before, in the wake of sudden shock.  Truthfully, he felt a little of it himself...

Howe’s treason was beyond madness. Surely, he must know the retribution that would follow such a crime; raising arms against his liege lord, slaughtering family, guests and servants without mercy or pity.  He’d come across the body of that Marcher priest, the Trevelyan girl’s chaperone, as he battled his way along the Gallery. There was hair and skin clenched in the old woman’s fists; she must have fought like a she-wolf, trying to keep the butchers from her mistress... Howe would answer for this but first he had to stop the boy from disappearing in front of his eyes.

Duncan held out the bowl

“You need to eat, we have a long journey ahead of us.”

Aengus looked up at him blankly, like he was speaking an unknown language, then returned to staring at the fire. Beside him, Snapper whined softly and pawed at his boot.  He could still smell the smoke and blood on Master, knew that something bad had happened to the Pack and their New Friends, and that Master was drifting away like he was very sick. He watched Old One carefully, alert for any threat, but Old One was bringing food and trying to care for Master….

“Eat!” Duncan ordered, shoving the bowl into Aengus’ hands “Your parents died to save you. Starving yourself is a bloody poor way of repaying that!”

The hard words cut through the fog in the boy’s mind.  He could feel the furious anguish boiling up in him, dragging in its wake the images he’d been fighting to forget

_The great red gash across Oren’s throat…  Pa, grey-faced, trying to staunch the blood pulsing from his side… Ma crying, kissing him goodbye, pushing him towards Duncan and the passage out… the tangled, bloody, mess of sheets on Sophia’s bed…_

He hurled the bowl into the fire with all his strength, broth hissing on the coals, and threw himself at Duncan with a howl of rage. The force of the impact took both men to the ground and Scrapper leapt to his feet, barking nervously

“You should have let me stay!” he yelled, spittle spraying Duncan’s face as the older man blocked the punches aimed at him “I should have been there with them!”

“And you would have died with them!” Duncan shouted, gripping Aengus’ wrists with surprising strength “Do you think your mother wanted that, to see your throat cut before her eyes? She wanted you to live… to live and to fight back!”

He rolled Aengus off him and sat up.  The boy lay on his back, breathing with rapid, hoarse, gasps and Duncan could tell what was coming.

“She loved you, Aengus… they both did, and they wanted you to live” he spoke softly, placing a hand on the boy’s arm “So live, and bathe your father’s sword in Howe’s blood. Make him pay for everyone he’s stolen from you”

A long, thin, wail broke from Aengus’ lips - deepening into heavy, shuddering, sobs; shaking, he clutched at Duncan’s hand and arm like a man afraid of falling.  Duncan moved closer; making quiet, soothing noises as the boy released the first surges of grief and pain. He was aware of Snapper creeping over and laying his head against his master’s chest.  He reached over with his free hand and scratched the dog behind his ears.

“He’ll be alright…” Duncan murmured “He’s got us…”

Eventually Aengus hauled himself up into a sitting position. His hands still trembled but he seemed calmer for the moment. He glanced at Duncan, feeling a sour knot of shame at striking the older man who’d saved his life

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have hit you.  That… that was unworthy”

Duncan shrugged

“You’re not the first recruit to aim a punch at me, you won’t be the last; and I’d rather you took it out on me than on yourself.”

He stood and walked over to the fire, picking up the bowl from where it had landed and refilling it; offering it to Aengus once more.

“Are you ready to eat something now? I make good broth and it would be a shame to waste it.”

Aengus felt his stomach grumbling and he began spooning it down eagerly…  When had he last eaten?

_Dinner… two nights ago…_

…Sophia convinced Orianna to wear one of her gowns in honour of Fergus’s departure.  His sister-in-law blushed almost as crimson as the bodice at first but was soon enjoying the novelty and lightness of the freer, more daring, Marcher style – almost as much as Fergus enjoyed the way it showed her off; he made Sophia promise to bring her dressmakers when she came back…

The men marching to war sobered the mood of celebration; the formal Betrothal wouldn’t take place until the successful conclusion of the King’s campaign - with the wedding shortly after – but there were still toasts to be drunk and congratulations made before the bride-to-be returned home as the notaries and lawyers set to work. 

Arl Howe… the man he called _Uncle Rendon_ … offered his best wishes for their future happiness, and later than night…

He wasn’t aware he’d started crying again until the bowl slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground with a ‘thunk’.  Duncan handed him a cloth to wipe the snot and tears from his face.

“I’m sorry…” he began. Duncan shook his head

“Don’t be afraid to let it out, lad… cry, swear, chop every bush we pass to bits…” he crouched and picked up the bowl “I never really knew my parents… they died when I was a child and I grew up on the streets. I’ve lost friends, people I’ve loved, so I know what it’s like to grieve… but I’m not going to pretend I can know even a part of what you’re feeling right now…”

Aengus grunted, almost an attempt at a laugh

“Aren’t you going to tell me to save it for the Darkspawn?”

Duncan pushed himself to his feet with a faint grimace. That pain in his knee was back and two nights on the damp ground was doing it no favours.  He pulled a bottle from his pack and uncorked it.

“You’ll have plenty left to throw at the Darkspawn, believe me…” He took a swig and handed the bottle over to Aengus “I won’t lie, this’ll be with you for a long time.  Truth is, it never goes away completely.  You’ll think everything is fine, then you’ll see a face or hear a song that reminds you… and it all comes back.”

Aengus took a mouthful, coughing as the raw spirit burned its way down his throat.

“I don’t want it to go away…” he growled “I want to remember all of it… everything he did… so that when…”

He looked across at Duncan, a sharp challenge in his eyes

“…or are Grey Wardens supposed to be above vengeance?”

Duncan took the bottle from him, raising it to his lips for a long swallow; wiping his mouth with the back of his hand

“Grey Wardens combat the Blight and kill Darkspawn; that is our duty.  Once this threat is put down I will gladly ride beside you to avenge your family.”  He corked the bottle and put it down beside him “I was born in Highever; as a boy I used to see your grandfather – old Teryn William – riding out with his knights.  The Orlesians offered him a Duchy and the Viceroyalty of Ferelden if he supported them, and he replied…”

Aengus sighed heavily, staring down at the ground between his feet

“…I need no foreign prince to make me noble.”

Duncan nodded

“Your family fought for Ferelden throughout the Occupation, despite what it cost them.  Your father was an honourable and generous man, a good friend to the Wardens.  Howe will get what he deserves, I promise you that...”

There was no comfort in the words.  Howe, and every man who wore his colours, could go to the Pyre but it wouldn’t give him back Pa, or Ma, or any of them.  He couldn’t bring himself to look at the shield propped against the tree, or the sword in it’s faded brocade sheath.  The ‘Arms of Highever’; gifted by Calenhad the Great when Teryna Elethea pledged fealty to his rule.  He didn’t deserve to wield them.  Pa had charged him with the defence of Highever – almost the last words they spoke before that night of fire and blood - and he’d failed… let them all down… The Arms belonged to Fergus now. 

Fergus… Maker… He would have to be the one to tell him…

_Not again…_

Aengus bit down on his wrist hard, tasting blood in his mouth, trying to stop the tears returning. 

Duncan, pulling the bedrolls out of their packs, made no comment.  Enough words had been spoken for one night, let the boy grieve in peace… there was a hard road ahead of him.

###

_Shouts and the sound of fighting in the hallway… the door bursting open… Ser Garath stumbling back, sword slipping from his hand as he clutched at the crossbow-bolt in his neck… Jiovan face down in a pool of blood, his lute crushed and trampled underfoot… Marisol screaming and beating with her fists at the men forcing her toward the bed…_

Sophia bit on the edge of her thumbnail as she watched the coast of Ferelden slip by through the narrow window of the cabin.  Mother Hortensia would have swatted her hand away from her mouth with an exasperated sigh, but she was dead too…   all of them, her servants – _her friends_ \- cut down while the hard-faced man in mail dragged her to that stinking outhouse.  She was there for hours; crying, praying, vomiting in panic and fear, until the sounds of murder faded, and _he_ arrived…

Arl Howe, clean handed, still in the clothes he wore at dinner; apologising with his venomous smile…

…The imminence of the Cousland’s treason made immediate action necessary…  the death of her retainers, that was unfortunate – the men responsible would be severely punished of course…

She huddled in the corner, fingers tangled in the torn and stained silk of her nightgown, as Howe’s suave words gliding through her shock and terror… 

…Secret deals… the foreign Warden… Orlesian troops poised to cross the border once the King’s army was embattled in the south... 

It was insanity, Teryn Bryce would never sell his country. These were lies, they had to be!  She opened her mouth to protest, angry words of accusation fading as she saw the hardness in Howe’s eyes; the look of a predator assessing its prey.  A cold, terrifying, certainty possessed her.

_I will only live if he thinks I believe him…_

He nodded a satisfied approval at her stammering confusion, continuing with the steady confidence of a man delivering a well-prepared speech.

…Of course, it was hard to accept, a terrible blow to all of them – him most of all.  His oldest friend, a traitor? Unbelievable…

…It was impossible for her to return to Ostwick immediately, she must understand that; while it was unthinkable her Lord Father could be complicit in Cousland’s schemes there were questions that must be answered to assuage even the faintest suspicion – but a sensible man like Count Boniface would see the need for such precautions.  In the meantime, she must consider herself his honoured guest…

_His hostage… Andraste, save me; I want to go home…_

A knock at the cabin door…

“Is there anything you require, milady?”

Sophia dried her eyes hurriedly before turning

“No, thank you…” she paused “How much longer will I be in here?”

The voice on the other side of the door hesitated a moment

“We dock at Amaranthine tomorrow morning, if the wind remains with us.  Horses will be waiting to take us to Denerim; we should arrive there on Saturday. Will that be all, milady?”

“Thank you, yes”

“I’ll bring your supper in an hour”

Sophia sat on the bunk as the footsteps receded, running the beads of her rosary through her hands.  Four days; Papa had friends in Denerim, if she could find a way of getting a message to one of them… but Howe’s people would be watching her closely; it wouldn’t be easy, and she couldn’t afford to make a stupid mistake. Deep inside, a quiet voice counselled patience, caution; she was in a foreign land without friends or allies and Howe wanted her for some game of his own.  It might be safer to wait, smiling and thanking him for his consideration, until she knew what that game was and how to play it.  Papa would not countenance this insult, once he knew…

###

Highever had been charming; timber-framed houses and cobbled streets running down to the sea, like the little fishing ports that dotted the Marcher coastline. Denerim, though…

‘The Jewel of Ferelden’ could have been set down twice within the walls of Ostwick City and still leave plenty of space; the houses of merchants and nobles jostled against the foulest slums without pattern or order, the streets along which they stood little more than muddy trenches, and as for the stench…  They had crossed the Drakon river on the way here, like riding over an open sewer.

Sophia wrinkled her nose in disgust as she turned away from the securely-barred windows of the chambers allotted for her use.  Howe’s mansion resembled a barracks more than the city residence of a high noble; nothing like the Trevelyan palazzo near the Grand Concourse - with it’s graceful, frescoed, arcades and cloistered garden where she and her ladies would dance and play cards before dinner.

The whole place felt mean, narrow and suffocating; like no breeze ever penetrated this warren of twisting, stinking, lanes and alleys.  Towering over all, the great spire of Fort Drakon – the only true grandeur the ‘city’ possessed, and that a legacy of Tevinter…

Servants in the Howe Livery entered carrying two large trunks, followed by the Arl and a worried looking young woman with long black hair.

“I had your baggage brought from Highever, I wouldn’t like you to be deprived of your comforts...” Howe smiled, every inch the gracious host “I’m afraid we must seem very provincial in comparison to Ostwick or Antiva”

Sophia gave a slight curtsey in acknowledgement

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Arl Rendon.  I must admit, Denerim is not quite what I anticipated, but…”

Howe laughed, a surprisingly mellow, engaging sound

“Denerim is a cesspit, my dear child, although I would not utter that outside these walls. I fear the Blessed Andraste would be disappointed in the state of her birthplace, but a century of Orlesian tyranny did not exactly encourage a policy of beatification”

He gestured to the black haired young woman to come forward

“My daughter, Delilah, and her ladies will see to your needs while you are my guest.  I’m afraid the volatile state of the city means there will have to be a few, necessary, restrictions on your movements; for your own safety...”

She was a prisoner, that was the short of it, confined to her chambers and only permitted to walk in the garden or attend services in the house Chantry with ‘proper escort’. Of course, once the King returned from Ostagar and all this ‘unpleasantness’ was resolved then matters would be quite different...

“I will leave you and Delilah to get acquainted...” Howe continued “I shall be writing to your Lord Father to inform him of your safety and well-being, would you like me to include a personal greeting?”

“Thank you, my Lord, would you tell him...” she hesitated a second or two, trying to recall the words Rafalli taught her “Tell him that I am in good health and take my comfort from the Chant.”

“A worthy sentiment indeed, and there may still be a mutual advantage to be won from this misfortune...”

Howe bowed slightly and took his leave.  She had no doubt if she opened the door there would be a watchful and trustworthy guard stationed there. The maids were busy unpacking the trunks – giggling and ‘oohing’ over the fine brocades and taffetas - Sophia tried not to look at the stain of blood on one of the lids.

“I’m sorry we have to meet in these circumstances” Delilah’s words took her by surprise; gentle, almost anxious, a world away from Howe’s complacent drawl “All this... It must have been terrible for you...”

The woman was a few years older than her and red-eyed, like she’d been crying a great deal.

“It has, yes… truly horrible l…” Sophia sat on the bed, folding her hands in her lap and carefully weighing her words. “I still pray this is a bad dream… I never would have thought Teryn Bryce could be a traitor.”

Delilah turned to adjust the position of a bowl of flowers, glancing nervously over at the maids still fussing over the unpacking.

“I’ve known… knew… the Couslands since I was a child. It is very hard to believe…” she turned to face Sophia with a deep breath; giving another, very deliberate, look in the direction of the maids “But Papa wouldn’t have been forced to act like that, if it wasn’t the truth.”

“I have no doubt…” Sophia agreed carefully; Delilah’s equally cautious words suggested the woman had little faith in Howe’s version of events, but she was his daughter - it would not do to come to any rash conclusions “…although the memory still tears at my heart.”

Delilah bowed her head briefly in thought, as if trying to decide something

“After you’ve bathed and rested, I’ll show you the house Chantry; it’s very lovely – and peaceful” she fidgeted with the buckle of her girdle “Perhaps… if you’re willing… we might pray together a while?”

There was an earnest look in the young woman’s eyes, and a hint of pleading in her voice. 

_She’s as frightened as I am_

“Yes, I would like that...” Sophia nodded “There is a great weight on my soul”

###

“ _I am in good health and take my comfort from the Chant_...” Howe’s secretary laid down his pen “A most proper and pious expression, my Lord, and undoubtedly some private family code.”

“Of course it bloody is; these Marchers are worse than Orlesians when it comes to duplicity!” Howe snapped, the strain of maintaining the facade of calm finally showing.  There was still no word from the south.  If Loghain failed to deal with Cailan, then he might as well hang himself right here and save everyone the trouble. This was a gamble, a big one, but the odds were very much in his favour and that was the only sort of game he liked to play.

He poured a glass of wine and drained it

“But it is a risk I’m prepared to take.  It will assure that old viper his precious daughter is alive and, I hope, make him more inclined to favour my proposition...”

He refilled his glass

“Add the usual salutations and prepare a fair copy. I think I shall go downstairs and see how our other ‘guests’ are faring”

 

 

 


	4. Episodes from a Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aengus gets off on the wrong foot with Alistair, but the ordeal of the Joining and the forthcoming battle begins to draw the two young men together as they face their first, and possibly fatal, challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Warnings***  
> Violence/Referenced Violence
> 
> ***Technical Terms***  
> Brigandine - a tunic of soft leather or quilted fabric, reaching to mid-thigh, and reinforced with panels of scale or chain mail; sometimes worn on its own but more usually with partial plate.  
> Cuirass - a light breastplate, sometimes with a back-piece and extending to cover the abdomen  
> Faulds - light, flexible, plates protecting the hips and upper-thighs
> 
> Basically, the armour worn by the Warden in Inquisition; offering sufficient protection while being light enough to be worn for extended periods of time without exhaustion or inhibiting movement.

_The ruins of the mighty Fortress of Ostagar sit at the southernmost end of the Imperial Highway, guarding the pass joining the Ferelden Valley to the desolate Korcari Wilds, a silent declaration that this is the point where civilisation ends; beyond it lie nothing but the savage Chasind and Avvar tribes with their heathen ways. Raised by the Tevinter Imperium long before the First Blight, even before Our Blessed Lady Andraste led the first Exalted March against the evil Magisters and their blasphemous Old Gods, it dominates the southern moorlands.  Despite local farms and villages raiding stones to build their barns and chantries the Fortress remains virtually intact – the great watchtower visible for miles around; evidence that, despite its wickedness, the Imperium was the first true civilisation in Thedas - its achievements unsurpassed through the intervening Ages_

– from Brother Desmon’s “A Children’s History of Ferelden” Denerim Cathedral Press. 9:23 Dragon

###

They arrived at Ostagar in the early afternoon, the great Tower of Ishal coming into view long before the rest of the Fortress could be made out.  King Cailan himself came out to greet them, his welcoming smile turning to shocked disbelief as he heard of the events at Highever Castle. Enfolding Aengus in a close embrace the King assured him justice for his family would be the priority after the defeat of the Darkspawn.  Everyone was being very sympathetic…

Fergus and his men were out on patrol, Aengus wouldn’t have a chance to speak to him until after the battle. That was a relief, even if temporary, it was a conversation he couldn’t imagine how to begin – or how Fergus would react; Orianna and Oren had been his world…

Two weeks on foot with only Duncan for company had got him used to silence; the noise and bustle of the King’s camp was overwhelming, almost painful. As Duncan went to confer with the other senior wardens, Aengus hunted for a quiet corner where he could put his thoughts in order, in the process tripping over an old woman sitting immersed in a book.

“Are you alright?” The woman was on her feet with surprising speed and ease, helping him regain his balance “My apologies, I was so intent on my reading I failed to notice you”

He shook his head, more concerned she might have been injured by his carelessness.

“It was my fault, I should have been looking where I was going.  I hope I didn’t hurt you?”

She pursed her lips slightly, tugging a stray thread away from his armour

“We both seem to be quite unharmed if slightly embarrassed” The woman glanced down at the ornately chased hilt of his sword “Are you with the King’s Party?”

“I’m one of the Grey Warden recruits” Aengus gestured over to the direction of Duncan’s tent.  She nodded with a quiet smile

“I thought I saw Duncan earlier.  Irving will be disappointed if he didn’t pay a visit to the Circle”

It was only then Aengus properly noted the richly coloured robes the woman wore.  He’d assumed she was a priest…

“Oh… You’re a Mage…?”

“Most observant, young man, Senior Enchanter Wynne of the Fereldan Circle” She crossed her arms and dropped her voice a register “Does being alone in the company of a Mage alarm you?”

Aengus couldn’t help but smile at her pantomime tones

“No… no, Mages don’t alarm me. I hope I didn’t cause offence?”

Wynne laughed

“You caused none, and show more fortitude than many.  There are a number of us here to help in the battle.  Magic has always been powerful against the Darkspawn.”

Aengus frowned; Enchanter Wynne, though not ancient, was far from young and looked more like a scholar.

“Will you be fighting the Darkspawn?”

She shook her head

“My talents lie more in healing, of which there will be a great need I fear” She sighed heavily “And if I know Duncan he has given you a list of tasks, longer than my arm, that I am keeping you from. You will have much to do.”

Aengus gave a small bow

“I apologise for disturbing your studies, Mistress Wynne, keep safe…”

As he turned to go she put a hand on his arm, a faintly embarrassed look on her face

“Might I know your name? We face a long, dark, night and I would remember you in my prayers”

He bit his lip; the gesture was maternal, touching, and brought an ache to his heart.

“It’s Aengus….” He said “Just… Aengus”

Wynne patted his hand with a quiet smile

“Well, ‘Just Aengus’; Maker speed you on your way and this foolish old woman will return to her books…”

###

“Last chance for a brew!” Daveth chuckled, getting the fire going as Alistair pulled bread, cheese and tea out of his pack. It would be dark soon and a fire at night would signal to any Darkspawn for miles around.  Aengus unsheathed his sword and sat down on a boulder, taking a small whetstone from his pouch and honing the edge of the blade with a look of intense concentration – hoping to deter conversation.

Daveth, the cut-purse from Denerim, had been quick to realise the young man with the fine sword and closed expression wasn’t interested in small-talk while the older Knight, Ser Jory, seemed too wrapped up in his own grumbling to care about anything else.  Aengus was glad Ser Jory’s preoccupation with his woes distracted him from noticing the Cousland Arms on his shield. Hearing the man talk constantly about his family in Highever was grindingly painful enough.

Alistair, the Warden accompanying them, was really starting to wear at his nerves though...

Aengus hadn’t assumed all Wardens would be as reserved as Duncan and the other young man’s snarky comments had been funny as they received their orders and headed off onto their first mission in the Wilds, but the constant monologue wore away the novelty after the first couple of hours. It felt like Alistair couldn’t go five minutes without hearing the sound of his own voice.

He laid the whetstone aside and took a moment to look around. The Wilds were moorlands mainly, dotted with stands of wind-warped trees and dipping down into swampy valleys that made for rough going.  They’d passed an abandoned Chasind homestead a few miles back but apart from that there was little sign that men had ever lived this far south in recent ages.  Other from the wolfpack that attacked them a few miles back they’d not run across any wildlife either.  There were wolves in the forests near Highever, Aengus had seen a few when out hunting with Scrapper, but they avoided humans unless hunger or a bad winter forced them down to raid livestock.  He could imagine a pack attacking a lone human out of need, but not a whole group – unless something had driven them mad; Duncan had told him how the Blight affected beasts as well as men. 

The thought drew his mind back to the task they’d been given as preparation for the Joining.  Retrieving the treaties, that he could understand – they were documents of great value, but the Darkspawn blood?

He ran the whetstone along the blade one last time.  Pa hadn’t wielded it in battle for years, but the Orzammar-forged steel held an edge well – sharp enough to slice clean through muscle and bone. Only a little care was needed to keep it in pristine shape.  He could ask Alistair about the blood, why they were required to gather such a poisonous substance, but he was sure it would only send him off on some joking, rambling, tangent...

Alistair tore a chunk of bread off with his teeth and began chewing

“So, what’s your story?” he grinned across at Aengus, spraying a few crumbs. 

This should be good, he thought; the man was a noble – not a minor one either judging by the sword – and nobles always had juicy Recruitment tales, usually pretty ripe ones…

Aengus frowned, slipping the whetstone back into his belt-pouch

“My story?”

“Yes… how you were recruited…” Alistair tore off another chunk with his fingers and passed the rest of the loaf to Daveth “Duncan snatched me from the jaws of the Chantry, Daveth was going to be hanged. Don’t know about Jory yet but there _has_ to be a good reason…  every Warden’s got one…”

“It doesn’t matter” Aengus muttered, testing the blade carefully with his thumb before sliding it back into its sheath “He recruited me, that’s all that counts…”

“Oho” Alistair chuckled “One of _those_ is it?”

Aengus eye’s narrowed and he felt the muscles of his jaw tighten.  He shouldn’t respond, shouldn’t let the man get under his skin but it was the leer that did it

“What do you mean, _one of those_?”

Daveth could tell the warning note in the young man’s voice and the subtle shifts in his posture.  He didn’t know why, but it was clear that Alistair’s questioning was leading into dangerous territory.

“Most noble-born recruits have got a bit of scandal about them, you know the usual stuff... what was it? Gambling debts, one too many tavern brawls?”

“Don’t want to talk about it…” Aengus adjusted the buckle of his sword belt, deliberately avoiding eye-contact with the warden. He could feel the pressure building up inside him, the tension in his chest and stomach.  If the man didn’t shut up…. right now…

Daveth’s eyes flicked between the two young men; Aengus was at boiling point and Alistair oblivious. They were both big lads, he didn’t fancy having to break up a fight between them – not out here in the Wilds with Maker-knows-what lurking in the scrub

“Look, maybe we should…” he began, but was cut off by Alistair’s laugh

“I knew it!  This is going to be juicy!” Alistair rubbed his hands in glee “Get the wrong girl in trouble, did you?”

Aengus clenched his fists, biting down hard on the inside of his mouth; wanting only to jump on the other man and push that flapping tongue right down his throat.  This is important… he forced himself to remember… what we’re doing is important; this is what Pa…

“My home was attacked, and my family murdered in the middle of the night” his voice was flat and steady, the muscles of his neck straining as he fought the urge to scream “Duncan conscripted me while my father lay bleeding to death.  Is that juicy enough for you?”

“Shit…” Daveth hissed to himself, burying his face in his hands. Alistair’s jaw dropped, eyes widening in horror as he realised Aengus wasn’t making a bad joke

“Oh… oh no… oh… Maker… I-I’m sorry! Aengus, I-I didn’t…”

“Just shut up… don’t say anything…” Aengus snapped “Isn’t there a job we’re supposed to be doing?”

He walked away to check the straps on his pack.  Alistair rose to follow, embarrassment and guilt churning in his stomach, but he felt Daveth’s restraining hand on his arm.

“Leave it, you’ll just make it worse” the rogue warned him “Best wait till he’s had the chance to hack something to bits; shouldn’t have to wait too long out here I reckon…”

###

Daveth was right, they didn’t have to wait long.  The first pack came at them less than an hour after they started moving

Darkspawn couldn’t talk but they still made noise, a wet gurgling and hissing rising up to piercing screeches and howls. Eight of them, mainly Hurlocks led by a big Alpha – with a couple of Genlock scouts; an advance raiding party, well-armed and dangerous.

The sword was slightly larger than the one Aengus was used to wielding and he shifted his stance to compensate, angling the shield the way Old Edric taught him. He heard an anguished yelp to his left; a crude trap had snared Alistair’s leg, not enough to injure but sufficient to briefly distract him from the creature bearing down. Aengus moved quickly, catching its jaw with the edge of his shield and driving the blade in and up – twisting on the withdraw to cause maximum damage – bringing it round again to slice deep into its neck, severing tendons and arteries. ‘Two blows are the most it should take to kill’ Edric had told him ‘Anything more is butchers work’

“Help Jory…” he barked at Alistair “I’ll deal with the big one…”

Signalling Daveth to concentrate his fire on the two Genlock’s that were homing in on Ser Jory, already hard pressed by one of the remaining Hurlocks, Aengus raced towards the leader, building up the speed he knew would be vital.  His trainers were veterans of the last brutal years of Ferelden’s struggle for freedom and they knew the skills a man needed to stay alive in the field; not always elegant, or chivalrous, but effective.

The Alpha had a war-maul; intimidating, crushing bones and organs into slurry if it hit, but relatively easy to dodge. Lean and long-limbed, Aengus had always been fast – beating his older brother in foot-races by the time he was 12 – and he twisted his body round the Darkspawn’s blow, bringing his sword down hard across the back of its knees. Even in full plate that was a vulnerable spot and the thing dropped with a shriek, exposing the back of its neck to a killing blow.

The sword had been crafted to endure for Ages.  It cut clean and deep; each blow stronger and surer as if it recognised the hand that wielded it.  With the Alpha down, it didn’t take the four of them long to dispatch the rest of the pack.  Once they were sure no more were near, Alistair took out a small, narrow-bladed, dagger and showed them how best to harvest the sluggish dark blood.

“Thanks for back there… You’re good. I mean, really good…” Alistair said as Aengus filled his phial.  He was trying to bridge the gap, Aengus knew it – and that he had taken command away from the Warden during the fight.  He ought to say something, make a gesture, but the rage still smouldered deep.

“I had good trainers.” His tone didn’t invite further conversation. Alistair nodded, biting back the questions, and shouldered his pack.

“The ruins Duncan told us about are a few miles further south.  We ought to get there by dawn.”

###

Aengus was glad when Morrigan left them within sight of the Ostagar camp.  There was something predatory about her, the way she looked at them – him especially, that reminded him of the time a travelling carnival had come to Highever displaying what it called ‘The Beast of Seheron'; a great black cat, maneless like a lioness, pacing and snarling in its cage; regarding the spectators with the same hungry vigilance he'd seen in the apostate girl's yellow eyes. He wasn't a stranger to Mages, his tutor was... had been one – the Fereldan Circle’s aid to the rebels against Orlais won it a great many freedoms from a grateful King Maric – so he didn't share Jory and Daveth's superstitions, but Morrigan and her mother were definitely odd.

Alistair was up ahead of him, Jory and Daveth just behind.  Aengus sighed, this might be the only chance he got.  The Warden had provoked him with his persistent chatter and questions, true, but his subsequent behaviour had been just as ill-mannered.  Pa would be disappointed in him. Whatever this Joining involved, the commitment was serious and lifelong – like Chantry Vows; conscience demanded he make some act of reconciliation towards a man he would soon call ‘Brother’

He trotted forward

“Alistair?”

“Yes? What is it?”

The young Warden sounded wary and defensive. Aengus took a deep breath, might as well get this over and done with

“I'm sorry...” he stuck out his hand “You're the Warden here and I behaved disrespectfully to you.  I wanted to apologise before we got back to camp”

Alistair looked down at the proffered hand in surprise

“Oh... Oh I see...” he wriggled his shoulders nervously “I mean it was really my fault. I shouldn't have pestered you with all those stupid questions.  I don't know when to shut up sometimes.”

“I still shouldn't have spoken to you like that” Aengus held out his hand a bit further “Please?”

Alistair took his hand and shook it firmly

“I promise I'll try to keep my mouth shut in future...”

Aengus couldn't resist

“Is that a promise you'll be able to keep?”

“Probably not...” Alistair smiled a little “but once you're a Warden you can tell me to shut up with a clear conscience”

Duncan was waiting for them when they returned; Snapper at his side, barking happily to see Master back from his Adventure.  The Warden-Commander breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he took the phials and the parchments from them.

“This is well done, these treaties are worth more to us than any amount of gold right now” He placed the phials in a small leather case and handed the documents to Alistair “Put these somewhere safe, until after the battle…”

“Yes, Duncan…” Alistair took them and tucked them under his arm “We retrieved them from two women out in the Wilds. They were… strange. I think they might have been Apostates.”

Duncan chuckled, shaking his head.

“Alistair, you are not a Templar anymore; besides, I think we face a greater threat than a pair of witches in the middle of nowhere” He turned to the recruits “I must make the arrangements for the Joining. You should take a little time to prepare yourselves…”

“Prepare ourselves?” Daveth muttered under his breath as Duncan strode off, carrying the case containing the phials “Might help if he told us what we were preparing ourselves for!”

###

There was no way of preparing for this.  Duncan hinted that Wardens paid a heavy price for their abilities and Aengus suspected the Joining entailed more than some guild pranking but he never could have imagined…

The only sound he could hear was his own breathing. The distant voices from the camp fading to nothing as he clutched the chalice in his hands. He thought it would be cold to the touch, but it was warm, and he told himself it was just the trembling of his arms making the thick, dark, liquid ripple and swirl.  Aengus raised his eyes to Duncan standing before him; not looking at Daveth's twisted body or Jory, staring sightless at the clouded night sky, in a slowly widening pool of blood.

Duncan nodded very slightly, acknowledging the question in the young man's eyes. If it was the Maker's Will that he didn't pass the Joining, then Duncan would see his vengeance through.

Aengus raised the chalice to his lips, chest tightening as he forced himself to breathe.  Daveth's death had been agonising...

_Though all before me is darkness, yet shall the Maker be my guide..._

The pain; hooks tearing his guts to ribbons. His stomach spasmed violently in an attempt to expel the toxic mess but his throat had closed up. He couldn't vomit, couldn't breathe; his body contracting around the burning at its core, unable to think or pray or even scream...

_…Mindless, gurgling, laughter... one mind with ten hundred thousand bodies leaping and dancing in bestial glee as the song of the Will directing it rang out clear and unconfined; it's commands simple... Feast! Kill! Burn! Remake this world in My image!_

_Ten hundred thousand throats echoing one howl of joy as their God, their Mind, their Purpose, belched geysers of blue flame hundreds of feet into the air; the howl becoming a wordless battle song as they surged forth from their lairs.  Tonight, His reign begins..._

He woke choking, throat raw and sore, trying to form words so he could be certain he was himself again.  A hand on his shoulder, a voice speaking to him; a human voice - not that terrible, compelling, song.

“Don’t try to say anything just yet…”

Aengus blinked, his vision clearing, using the voice to focus on the young man crouched beside him.  There was a name in his head… Alan…? Alwynn…? Alistair…! That was it, Alistair was there by the bed he lay on; helping him to sit up, handing him a mug filled with something he was sure he recognised

“Warm milk and a bit of Elfroot…” Alistair told him, making sure he had a firm grip on the mug “It’ll soothe your throat better than water.  Sip… don’t gulp… or you’ll just throw up all over the place; like I did.”

He grinned sheepishly, helping Aengus take his first few sips; holding his hands firmly so the other man didn’t give in to the urge to swallow the whole mugful in one.  The mixture of milk and Elfroot quickly soothed the burning in Aengus’ mouth and throat; eventually, much to his relief, he was able to speak a little.

“I… I was… was one of them, and… and all of them; and that song… _Oh, Maker…!_ ”

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Alistair asked “The Archdemon?”

Aengus nodded, risking a slightly bigger mouthful of milk. Thankfully it stayed down.

“That’s how we know this is a true Blight.” Alistair sighed “It hasn’t appeared yet, but we can feel it out there; you’ll see what I mean as time goes on.”

“So, what happens now?” Aengus held out his mug for Alistair to top up.

“Duncan’s with the King and Teryn Loghain, planning for the battle” Alistair set the jug back in the hot ashes to keep warm “Once you’re dressed, we’ll join him and get our orders”

“Dressed?” The thing nipping at Aengus’ mind finally slipped into place and he lifted up the blanket a bit.  Sure enough, underneath it he was naked.  Alistair began to redden

“About the Joining… you see… you don’t just pass out and have bad dreams, you…” he scratched nervously at the back of his ear then blurted it out quickly “You mess yourself, everyone does; nothing to get too embarrassed about. Duncan and I cleaned you up and there’s clean clothes over there with your armour.”

Alistair walked over to the table, fussing about with something and trying not to catch Aengus’s eye

“Did you…? Mess yourself, I mean” he finished his drink; feeling better, and inclined to take advantage of the other’s Wardens discomfort

“Oh Maker, yes!” Alistair chuckled ruefully, fidgeting with a small chopping knife “I’d had two plates of fish stew and dumplings earlier. Duncan said he had a good mind to leave me to clean myself up.”

Aengus laughed, he could almost hear Duncan saying those words.  The sound of it surprised him, cutting it short. It was the first time he’d laughed since Highever.

“Thank you…” he said quietly “Thank you for making this a bit easier.”

Alistair grinned nervously

“It’s my job; helping you meet impending doom with kind words… and a warm sponge.  Now, let’s get you dressed, probably not a good idea to keep the King waiting too long.”

The armour was lighter than he expected, but sturdy, and surprisingly comfortable.  A brigandine of soft blue leather, reaching to mid-thigh and reinforced with panels of Silverite scale.  Over that, a cuirass and faulds of the same metal, the cuirass engraved with the Griffon of the Order.  Knee-high boots, and gauntlets of supple brown leather completed the outfit.  Alistair helped him adjust the straps to get the best fit.

“We spend a lot of time in armour, and on foot” he explained “So plate isn’t really practical.  This does the job and it’s easy to put on and take off once you get the knack.”

Aengus had to admit it looked good on Alistair and he regretted there wasn’t a mirror, so he could see himself. 

_I wish Pa could see me…_

His throat tightened, and he blinked hard; hoping that, wherever he was, Pa knew that he was keeping the promises he made…

“Do you… I mean… Would you like me to leave you alone for a few minutes?” Alistair asked, seeing the shift in his comrade’s expression.  Aengus shook his head and cleared his throat.

“No… no, you’re right.  We’d best not keep the King waiting.”

###

Aengus drove the edge of his shield hard into the ogre’s groin, hearing its bellow of pain.  The beast fell back, throat exposed, and Alistair’s blade sliced deep through skin and cartilage.  Blood sprayed both men as it choked and gurgled, still trying to rise, until a second blow from Aengus severed its head completely.  He could feel the Darkspawn in the lower levels of the tower, like a tightening in his guts, but it would be a while before they could reach the men at the summit.  Long enough to light the beacon and get ready.

“Help them barricade the doors…” Aengus ordered, grabbing a guttering torch off the floor.  Thank the Maker the Darkspawn hadn’t smashed up the beacon, the pyre stood more than a foot taller than him, well stacked wood and straw that would burn clear and bright.  The fire caught quickly on the dry fuel and he could already feel the heat on his face while Alistair and the surviving tower-guards heaved benches, chests and darkspawn corpses across the doorway to form an improvised barrier.  He ought to help them, but he had to see…

As he ran to the watchpoint overlooking the Pass below the flames of the beacon already surged fifteen, twenty, feet high and growing; summoning the reinforcements and giving hope to the men fighting at the Gates.

Whoever picked this spot to build the southernmost bastion of the Tevinter Imperium was a strategic genius.  The landscape worked to funnel any approaching army into the narrow Ostagar Valley, pushing the Darkspawn Horde towards the chokepoint of the Pass and preventing them fanning out to take full advantage of numbers.  The Kings Army and the Wardens could take them rank on rank while Loghain’s flank attack broke and scattered the impetus of their advance.  Aengus felt a surging in his chest; perhaps the King’s optimism was justified, and they could end this tonight. 

With the noise from the pass below and the howling wind it was hard to be sure, but he thought he could hear a horn being blown.  Too faint to make it out properly but it had to be Loghain’s charge!

“What’s happening…?” Alistair called across, torn between the urge to join Aengus at the wall and the need to hold the doors.  They couldn’t hear the approaching Darkspawn yet, but they could only be a floor or two below. He sensed them getting nearer every second, knew they were hungry and already smelled the live meat above them.

“I heard a horn; they’re coming…” he shouted back, still intent on the battle below.  It would be a matter of minutes at most, but his impatience grew with every breath and he pounded his fist against the balustrade. “Come on… come… on…!”

“Aengus!” There was a sharp edge of alarm in Alistair’s voice and he turned, sword ready.  Maker! He could hear them over the roaring of the beacon-fire; dozens of them, perhaps scores, squealing and gurgling in anticipation of the feast that lay ahead.  He saw the look in the other Warden’s eyes – fear, overlaid with the determination to go down fighting; feeling the same as he gripped his sword tighter and ran over to join the others.

_So, this is how it ends… At least we did our duty. Andraste; receive our souls…_

The Darkspawn surged over the barrier like it wasn’t there; the tower-guards were overwhelmed immediately, going down screaming as teeth and claws ripped into them.  He was back to back with Alistair, sword and shield ready…

“At least we don’t have to worry about cleaning our armour tomorrow…”  Alistair’s voice cracked under the forced cheerfulness and Aengus grinned, a dark battle-fire burning in his eyes

“Good. I always bloody hated that…”

He cried out as a savage pain in his thigh drove him to one knee.  There was barely time to register the black-feathered bolt stuck deep in his leg before another hit him in the side.  A third slammed into his shoulder, just below the collarbone; sending him flat on his back, each breath torture as the barbed heads bit deeper.  A weight landed across his stomach, knocking the last of the wind out of him – Alistair, blood welling from a deep gash in his scalp. His vision was blurring but he could see a few of them creeping closer; cautious, but intent on their waiting meal

_I hope you bloody choke on us…_

He could hear a rushing, like the beating of mighty wings, and darkness overtook him.


	5. Puzzle Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denerim awaits news of the great battle being fought at Ostagar. Sophia, a 'guest' in Arl Howe's mansion, attempts to build a picture of the events that have have her trapped...
> 
> Across the Waking Sea, Count Boniface Trevelyan and his spymaster examine the evidence before them and come to a disturbing verdict; leading to a new player being brought into the Game...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers will note that a certain character's origin and role is rather different from the game. This is because the story required a character of such similar type that it made more sense to adapt an existing one than add a new.
> 
> The Italianate style of Ostwick is a deliberate personal headcanon; equating the Free Marches culturally and socially with the great city-states and principalities of Renaissance Italy - based on their geographic location and proximity so the similar 'romance' nations of Antiva and Orlais
> 
> ***Glossary of Terms***
> 
> Coranto - an energetic, fast-paced, dance -characterised by light, skipping, steps and turns  
> Bassadance - Slower and more formal, the feet rarely leaving the floor.  
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_...The city still awaits word from Ostagar.  The Chant, together with prayers for the King and his victory, are sung day and night in the Cathedral and I’m told that all but the most essential business is at a halt._

_Delilah informs me a great mass of pilgrims surround the Birth Rock, beseeching Andraste’s blessing and protection. She has sent some of her maids there to make offerings and light candles on our behalf._

_I have seen none of this with my own eyes. Arl Rendon informs me the city is too unsettled for him to risk my safety on the streets, even with proper escort. There is violence in the Alienage and many brigands all too ready to prey on the unwary._

_The Arl’s concern for my well-being, despite the thousand other matters pressing for his attention, is truly gratifying. This necessary confinement would be unbearable without it..._

Sophia laid her pen down and sat back, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, looking down at the words on the page before her.  She didn’t require the subterfuge of carefully positioned threads or hairs to know her diary was being read; probably by Howe’s smooth-tongued ‘Secretary’, or even by the Arl himself.  Only in the safety and secrecy of her innermost thoughts could she admit the dangerous truths gleaned over the past days. 

‘Always pay attention to a man’s servants’ Signor Rafalli taught her ‘That will tell you more about him than anything else’ 

Howe’s servants were frightened, or sullen; the glances passing between them, snatches of hurried whispers as they changed her bedlinen or prepared her bath told her they knew there was something wrong even if they never admitted what. Little questions -  innocent ones, the type a bored young woman in an unfamiliar place would ask, teased out innocent answers. It was a puzzle game, gathering pieces until you had enough to be able to guess at the picture.  

Arl Rendon was very busy, they informed her, hardly ever at home. With the Arl of Denerim at Ostagar, and his son dead, there was no real authority in the King’s absence - so much of the responsibility for the security and defence of the capital now fell on Arl Rendon’s shoulders. Most of his time was spent at the Palace or Fort Drakon, his officers and men reinforcing Denerim’s depleted garrison and aiding the Royal Guard. The Queen-Consort was very grateful for his assistance; with the King and her father so far south, the riots in the Alienage and now the shocking news of Teryn Bryce’s treason, Arl Rendon had proven himself indispensable. Such loyal service would be richly rewarded when the King returned. 

When the King returned...  Howe would have most of Northern Ferelden under his grip. Safe little questions and little answers creating scraps of a picture that made no sense but frightened her more deeply than ever.  This was too much to be one greedy lord’s plotting; the King’s return might see the beginning of the real battle being fought… 

### 

Only the faintest tightening of the muscles around Raffali’s eyes betrayed the old Elf’s feelings as he read Arl Howe’s letter.  He had served the Trevelyans for over fifty years, ever since Count Sergio decided to hand a juvenile cut-purse over to his spymaster for training, rather than hang him from the nearest tree.  Whatever qualities the Count saw to provoke such an act of mercy had served three generations of his family well. 

He had watched Donna Sophia grow from a laughing infant into a young woman of grace and beauty, a jewel to be prized above all others; now this most precious treasure of House Trevelyan was in the hands of that…  There were no words in any language strong enough to convey his contempt. He carefully folded the letter and placed it back on the Count’s desk.

“If I might be so bold, my Lord, how has Donna Caterina taken this news?”

Count Boniface set down his wineglass down and inhaled slowly, still gazing out of the window.  This was his favourite view, the reason he had chosen this room for his private study; the artfully terraced gardens blended seamlessly into the olive groves stretching down to the river and the village below. On lazy summer afternoons he could set business aside and enjoy a bowl of tea while watching the children play in the shade of the cedar trees.  His little Sophia…

“The Countess will be spending a few days in retreat at the Cloister of Our Lady Resplendent…” he ran the tip of his index finger around the rim of his glass “This is difficult for her… as you might imagine.”

Raffali nodded quietly; Donna Caterina had been in delicate health for some time, such a shock might have grave consequences

“It is difficult for all of us, my Lord”

The Count had locked himself in his chambers for two hours after the letter from Ferelden arrived and the spymaster could guess at the depth of rage and grief his master poured out before the calm, patrician, mask he now wore could be safely assumed.  It had been a courtesy between two old friends, the Teryn of Highever and the Count Trevelyan of Castrotrevalli - Signori of high honour and renown, that their children should be permitted a little time together before the formalities of marriage were finalised; a thoughtful kindness to a beloved daughter, allowing her to decide if the young Lord Aengus was to her taste.

Instead she had been sent, defenceless, into the midst of massacre; worse – Andraste preserve them all - if his suspicions were correct.  The Count turned, gesturing at the letter on his desk

“This Rendon Howe; this contemptible pariah of a dog-lord, _dares_ write to me of ‘regrets’ and ‘advantages’ with my daughter his captive… the blood of my servants, of his own Lord; my dearest friend… staining his hands.  These _insinuations_ about complicity with Orlais…”  He sat down heavily in his chair with a deep sigh, indicating that Raffali should also sit ““I consider you an old and valued friend, as much as my spymaster; how does my friend believe this insult to our house should be answered?”

Raffali inclined his head a little in response to his Lord’s words and seated himself, leaning back and steepling his fingers.

“The implication that Teryn Bryce was conspiring with the Orlesian Court is palpably false and that concerns me greatly.  For Howe to have perpetrated such an outrage suggests a wider move in the Game than one man’s hunt for advantage.  You are aware of the rumours about King Cailan’s marriage?”

Count Boniface nodded, pouring himself more wine and filling a glass for Raffali.  The absence of an heir to the Fereldan throne was the subject of some gossip amongst the rulers and nobles of the Free Marches and beyond; some scandal-mongers even suggesting Queen Anora was as ‘intact’ as the day she took her marriage vows – through no deficiency on Cailan’s part.

He handed the glass to the Elf, who accepted it and raised it to his nose, savouring the aroma; an Antivan Rioja, the 9:27 unless he was very much mistaken.  Taking a sip, he continued…

“While there has been no explicit mention of annulment, I am informed of several arguments between the King and Teryn Loghain.  The Teryn is a proud man, and sensitive that many consider his elevation to the highest rank of nobility an extravagance on King Maric’s part; the setting aside of his daughter would be a source of great bitterness to him.”

Count Boniface recalled his own encounter with Loghain, as Ostwick’s representative at King Cailan’s coronation; a stern man, not without a certain gruff charm, but clearly disdained by – and disdainful of – the bulk of the Fereldan nobility.  It was plain he regarded himself as the true guardian of the late King Maric’s legacy.  The present King was a young man, strong-willed and impetuous, struggling to emerge from the shadows cast by his father and father-in-law; heroes of Ferelden’s long battle for freedom.  It wasn’t impossible that such a struggle might impel the Teryn to action if he felt his own interests or those of Ferelden were threatened.  History was full of such precedents.     

“You think it possible Teryn Loghain intends to move against the King?” The Count cradled his wineglass in his hands, staring down at the light reflecting of the dark red surface of the wine as if the future could be read there.  The thought was unpalatable, but not entirely implausible “And that Howe acts as his agent in this matter?”

Raffali considered for a moment; speculation was always dangerous, but it was more dangerous to ignore what was spitting in your eye – as old Brother Serafino used to say.

“I believe it is not impossible, my Lord, given what we know; and if there were a plot against the King it would make sense to neutralise his closest allies in advance.  This puts us in a delicate position, and we must move carefully to ensure Donna Sophia’s continued safety…”

He took another sip of wine, allowing the fragrance to penetrate his palate; she had learned her lessons well, the little chaffinch, the message included in Howe’s letter confirmed she was alive and in no immediate danger but surrounded by potential threats.  She was clever and already had a good sense of the Game, something her captors might learn to their cost in the end…

“Howe will not harm her so long as he believes she gives him an advantage over you; and as he has the audacity to think he can play you, I say we play him back.  Give him reason to assume he will have what he wants, in the fullness of time, but withhold any immediate benefit…”

Count Boniface knew, and the Elf knew, exactly what was intended but this mental jousting was an old, familiar, game

“The eldest, Nathaniel; he is in Hercinia, serving the Chevalier di Rienzi as squire, is he not?”

“With some four months of his service remaining.  It would take a great incentive for the Chevalier to liberate his squire on the eve of the Grand Tourney.”

The Count gave a satisfied nod; a squire was bound to his service as solemnly as any Chantry Initiate. To abandon that without his Chevalier’s written Liberation was an indelible stain.  Like most of his breed, di Rienzi was particular of his honour, any hint of bribery or bullying on Howe’s part would be counter-productive at least, but it would be wise to take measures.

“So, it would take no great incentive for the Chevalier to ignore any such request, even if one were to reach him.  Our thoughts appear to follow each other.”

Raffali laughed a little. If truth were told, Count Boniface scarcely needed a spymaster these days; the man could run rings around a Master Bard if his mind turned to it.

“My Lord compliments me greatly; I am content to be his sounding board.” The Elf’s modest comment brought a slight smile to the Count’s lips “With your permission I would like to travel down to the City.  There is someone there who might be of… material assistance.”

“One of your Irregulars?” Count Boniface inquired, with an arch of his eyebrow.  Like any adept spymaster, Raffali kept a wide network of official and unofficial agents.  His ‘Irregulars’ were something of a running joke, a secret he kept even from his Lord and therefore from the searching eyes and ears to be found in any noble court.

“My Lord would no doubt find him most irregular, if somewhat amusing; but he is reliable, and I would trust no-one else in this affair.”

He rose, making a low bow; at the door he paused, turning once again to his master

“Don Bonifacio; you honoured me by calling me friend, so it is as a friend that I say this.  I swear to you, on my life, that I will bring your daughter home unharmed and that Rendon Howe will die screaming for this insult.”

###

“So, you have an assignment for me, Signor Raffali? I am most glad” The blond young Elf finished buttoning his waistcoat and turned to admire his sleek lines in a mirror “And here I thought I would waste away, forgotten in this miserable garret!” 

Raffali glanced around, with a dry smile, at the well-appointed chambers – located in a quiet street behind the Grand Concourse.  Ostwick, like the other Eastern Marcher States, was not as ‘particular’ as some about Elves living outside the limits of an Alienage – provided the Elf in question had the right resources or connections; ‘Gold gives all ears the same shape’ so the saying went.  The carefully lettered card pinned to the door read

 

_Araini, Z. Instructor in Dance and Swordplay_

 

“You appear to be wasting away quite comfortably” Raffali seated himself on a couch upholstered in scarlet satin “The young lady who just left; was she learning dance or the sword?  I can never tell these days…” 

Zevran smirked as he pulled his hair back and tied it loosely with a black silk ribbon. 

“Alas, her husband is old and no longer light on his feet; she loves the Coranto whereas it takes him all evening to manage a single Bassadance…” 

The older Elf chuckled quietly; Zevran might be incorrigible but he reminded the old spymaster so much of another rascally character of many years ago. 

“She should consider herself fortunate he is still capable of remembering the steps; and yes, I do have an assignment for you.  There is some business in Ferelden needing attended to” 

Zevran’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he positioned a copper pot over the brazier and began to prepare coffee in the Rivaini fashion they both preferred. 

“There is _always_ business in Ferelden needing attended to.  Their cuisine for a start; they boil everything and use too much cheese.” 

Raffali relaxed back onto the cushions of the couch, arranging his walking stick carefully to one side.  The silver-mounted length of black Heartwood contained a needle-thin blade of the finest steel; it could pierce a man’s heart and he might walk a hundred paces before realising he was dying. 

“They are barbarians, it is true, and need to learn there are more than two ways to cook an egg; but unfortunately, this is not a matter of indigestible food.  I need you to listen very carefully to everything I have to say and be sure to understand it well.  Failure would have most regrettable consequences.”

###

“...then it’s left, left, curtsey and... skip right!”

Delilah laughed as Sophia finished the move with a delicate flourish of her hand

“Oh no, I could never remember all that!”

It was Sophia’s turn to laugh

“It’s easy, believe me, I learned this when I was eight” she extended her hand “Here, take my arm and we’ll go through it together...”

The garden of Howe’s mansion was a long narrow strip between the rear of the house and the high brick wall separating the grounds from the alleys and tenements behind it.  Laid out with gravel paths and formal flower beds, it caught the afternoon sun and was doubtless a more pleasing exercise yard than some prisons offered. It was the first truly warm day of Spring, in Sophia’s opinion anyway, hinting at the prospect of a long summer.  The decorative trees in the centre of each flower bed were in full bloom and the air full of the lazy drone of bees; echoing the hum of the city beyond the garden walls.

Denerim could only hold its breath so long; prayers still went up from the Chantries and around the Birth Rock but the markets, taverns and whorehouses were as raucous as ever.  News from Ostagar would come in its own time but money wouldn’t make itself.

“I wish I could go to more dances...” Delilah sighed “Father won’t let me attend any of the court balls and he rarely gives any. I think he does it out of spite. The other Nobles detest him...”

Sophia glanced back at Delilah’s ladies, seated around the table under the big willow-tree in the corner; they were engrossed in their game of cards, arguing whether a Pair of Mages beat a Run of Three.

“Why would they do that?” she asked carefully

Delilah leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper, like the two girls were sharing a secret joke

“He’s a monster, I think the only thing he really likes is hurting people. Uncle Bryce was his only true friend and look what he did; I know he wasn’t a traitor and so do you...” she squeezed Sophia’s hand “You’re right not to trust anyone here -  I wouldn’t if I were in your place -  but I’m going to tell you a secret and you must promise never to breathe a word of it…”

“I promise, on Andraste’s Pyre…” Sophia whispered back, then said aloud “We should make a Flower-Crown for Our Lady; do you do that here in Ferelden?”

Delilah looked at her in surprise then smiled as he realised the younger woman’s strategy. 

“No, we don’t; but it sounds lovely. It that something you do in the Marches?”

Sophia nodded, slipping her arm through Delilah’s as the two of them walked towards a likely looking spot, just a little bit further from the other ladies and the watchful eyes of the guards.

“Oh yes, Our Lady always has a crown of fresh flowers in Spring.” She nodded towards the small marble statue of Andraste surrounded by enamelled flames in the centre of the garden “She doesn’t look right without one” 

Seated on a low bench, the women began to pick suitable blooms; matching colours, splitting and splicing stems – the very embodiment of innocent charm to anyone observing.

“Father and Teryn Loghain are plotting against the King, I’m sure of it…” Delilah held a marigold up to her nose and offered it to Sophia to smell “I’ve heard Father talking to some of the officers, I think they’re going to seize him when he gets back and put him in Fort Drakon.  That must be why he killed Uncle Bryce; he would have raised the whole Bannorn against them… Perhaps he had Lord Vaughan killed as well, so he could take charge of Denerim”

The silver pin Sophia was using to split the stems slipped, stabbing her thumb, and she let out a little cry of alarm.  The picture she had been trying to build and deny at the same time lay clear in front to her.  One of the guards glanced over -  seeing only Lady Delilah dabbing at her friend’s hand with a kerchief he returned to pondering whether it was beef stew for dinner again, and if the dumplings would be fresh.

“But why…?” the question answered itself even as it was formed.  Before she took ship to come here, Papa had told her of how Teryn Bryce and his sons stood close to the throne for as long as Queen Anora’s womb remained closed.  A king must have an heir; Cailan was still a very young man and barrenness solid grounds for divorce.  Sophia dropped her voice to the merest whisper, afraid even to move her lips, Raffali once told her there were those who could read the shapes made they made when you spoke “Was he going to set her aside?”

Delilah nodded, taking the ribbon Sophia handed her to tie the garland of woven flowers into a chaplet fit for the Maker’s Bride.

“I have a friend who serves as Acolyte to the Grand Cleric; she says the King asked Her Eminence to prepare a submission to the Sunburst Throne when he returned from battle…” she finished the elaborate knot, checking it would hold firm “You must say nothing of this… to anyone… they’d kill both of us.”

Who would believe them anyway? Sophia thought.  Two bored little girls inventing wild fancies to while away an afternoon…  Holding the crown in both hands she got to her feet and skipped over to the taller of the guards; the one she’d nicknamed ‘Ser Freckles’

“Would you honour us by crowning Our Lady, Messere?” she asked with a winsome smile “I believe you’re the only one who could reach”

The man’s cheeks reddened as his older companion ‘Ser Squint’ stifled a laugh

“I… er… I’d be pleased to, milady…” he stammered, taking the crown from her; careful to keep his hands steady and his eyes where they belonged.  In this house, any hint of ‘disrespect’ to the gentry could earn a flogging, or worse, if it came to the Arl’s ears.

The heavy echo of a single great bell rolled down over them, ending all conversation… a hand frozen in the act of reaching for a card, another clutching convulsively at a sleeve.  Heartbeats later it came again, and yet again as the meaning sank into numb, resistant minds.  ‘Old Vinter’, Denerim called it, high in the Tower of Drakon; forged in the days of the Imperium’s rule and sounded only as a signal of disaster – invasion, war, the death of kings…

In its wake, faint at first but rising in volume as it spread, the low pulsing moan of hundreds – thousands – of voices crying out in bewilderment and fear…

 

 

 

 

 


	6. On The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aengus and Alistair begin their journey north with the fate of Ferelden, perhaps all of Thedas, resting on their shoulders; a journey that brings them new companions as the magnitude of Loghain's actions and their implications begin to sink in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger warnings***
> 
> Violence/referenced violence  
> \-------------------------------------

_They swarmed over him, no amount of kicking and flailing stopped them... Clawed fingers tearing at his armour, needle-sharp teeth ripping into skin and muscle.  He could hear screaming and realised it was his own..._

Aengus woke with the scream still in his ears; heart thundering and sweat soaking the bedding. The tower was gone, as were the Darkspawn feeding on him. The dim firelight allowed him to make out a cluttered, low ceilinged room and a shadowy figure tending the fire.

“So, you wake at last...” the figure was female; her voice well-modulated, sarcastic, somehow familiar “Mother _will_ be pleased.”

She stood, dusting off her hands and stepping closer to the bed

“You...” he gasped “The girl from the Wilds”

“My name is Morrigan, in case you have forgot...” she sounded a little put out by that thought “and this is my mother’s hut”

“But the Darkspawn...  The battle?”

Perhaps he’d never left the Wilds. He’d been wounded, some fever dream from tainted water or a poisoned weapon...

“The man who was to have responded to your signal left the field...” Morrigan’s matter of fact words stepped firmly on that futile hope “Your army was overrun and slaughtered.”

“That’s not true! I heard...” He threw back the blanket to get up then pulled it back hastily on realising he was naked... again...

Morrigan laughed

“Such modesty! I have been keeping you clean and dry the past three days, boy! There is nothing under there that could be any surprise to me...”

‘Boy’ stung, Morrigan couldn’t be more than a year older than him – if that. He sat there, the coarse woollen blanket bunched over his lap, clinging to his embarrassment as the one thing he could deal with right now.

“Can I have something to wear?”

Morrigan tossed him a pair of linen under-drawers from a stack of clothes on a bench

“The rest of your clothes are over there” she indicated another pile as she turned to busy herself with the pot hanging over the fire while Aengus squirmed into the drawers under cover of the blanket “Don’t worry, I shall not peek! And it matters not if you doubt what I tell you. The man and his soldiers withdrew, whatever you heard was most certainly not a command to charge”

“But the King, and the other Wardens?”

He swung his feet to the floor and sat up properly, gripping the edge of the bed as he felt a violent spinning in his skull. Taking a deep breath, he fought the urge to vomit.  Morrigan continued to tend the simmering stew, apparently untroubled by the news she had to impart

“Dead, I imagine, the Horde tore through their ranks and massacred all who did not have the common-sense to flee.  If it were not for Mother’s timely intervention you and your friend would have shared their fate.  As it was, your wounds were most grave.”

Aengus looked down, examining himself for traces of injury; a puckered red scar on his left thigh, another just above his right hip and one below his collarbone.  Some healing magic had been used for them to be closed this soon.  There were others, left to heal naturally and scabbed over, jagged crescent shapes on his arms and legs; bitemarks…

This time he did vomit, retching violently and spitting out a thin stream of yellowish saliva.  Morrigan ‘tutted’ as he wiped his mouth and chin with the back of his hand.  Filling a wooden mug with water she passed it to him with a look that might have been sympathetic.

“My friend…? Alistair…?”

“If you mean the whining dimwit, then yes.  He has been awake and bothersome for a day or so.” She returned to her culinary endeavours “I believe he is outside, somewhere, with Mother.  She will wish to speak to you, now you are awake.”

The tone of dismissal was clear, and Aengus eased himself to his feet; taking a few careful steps to be sure of his balance before starting to dress.  His clothes and armour had been cleaned and repaired reasonably well.  What Morrigan told him; Loghain retreating, the army overwhelmed, the King and the other Wardens dead – none of it felt real.  He should be devastated by the news but there was only this numbness; like the time he drank a whole bottle of Pa’s vintage port and couldn’t feel his face. One question remained stuck in the front of his mind; maybe he could only cope with one at a time…

“Your mother rescued me and Alistair – how?”  There had been scores of darkspawn swarming the top of the tower, hundreds on the levels below.  Even if the old woman was a powerful witch, no one Mage could fight through that many unaided; let alone carry two unconscious grown men however many miles it was from Ostagar to the middle of the Wilds.

Morrigan shrugged

“Mother has her secrets, which she does not share with me.  Perhaps she swooped down in the form of a mighty eagle and plucked you to safety in her talons.  You would have to ask her.”

It was plain the conversation was over, as far as she was concerned. Aengus tightened his sword-belt and stepped out, blinking, into the sunshine. Alistair looked around, his eyes red and puffed, a long scar running across his forehead just below the hairline.

“You’re alive! Thank the Maker” The intensity of the hug almost took Aengus off his feet “The old woman said you’d lost so much blood... That you might not...”

“Fortunately, his constitution is as resilient as your skull, lad!” Morrigan’s mother appeared from around the corner of the hut, a bunch of fresh-picked herbs in her hand and a sharp glint in her eye “And I do have a name, not that you bothered to ask it”

Alistair let go of Aengus and turned to the old woman

“I’m sorry... It’s just... I... I suppose it is I didn’t think...”

“No, you didn’t...” she pushed back Alistair’s hair to check how his wound was healing “But given the effort it took to keep those addled brains inside your head, where they belong, I believe the oversight can be forgiven... this time.  My name is Flemeth and you are the Grey Wardens Alistair and Aengus.  There! Now we are all introduced like civilised people.”

“Then we owe you our thanks, you saved both our lives...”

Flemeth? It was hard not to scoff or sound incredulous.  Flemeth was a story to scare children, the Wicked Witch of the Wilds who would carry you off and eat you if you didn’t wash your hands before dinner or say your prayers at night.  He’d stopped believing in her about the same time he worked out it was Pa who left the Satinalia presents at the foot of his bed, not the Old Fenec who lived in the Moon.  Of course, there were the other tales – the ones the boys heard from the soldiers as they got older – told and retold with varying degrees of explicitness and detail depending on the teller; a demon-possessed sorceress, beautiful and desirable, luring young warriors into the woods and devouring them once they could no longer satisfy her other desires.

This Flemeth seemed more the type to make a stew of infants who failed to say the Maker’s Blessings than drain men of their vital strength; Morrigan, however… Aengus hoped that ‘cleaning and drying’ was all that happened when he was unconscious.

This was foolish.  No doubt she was just a wily old apostate using a name guaranteed to scare away the superstitious and feeble minded… but she’d managed to snatch the pair of them from the summit of a tower swarming with Darkspawn.  Whether or not she was the ancient, shape-shifting abomination of nursery tale and salacious legend, she had saved them both and all she wanted in return was for them to end the Blight.

It was a reasonable enough request, that was what Grey Wardens were meant to do after all, but with Duncan and the other Ferelden Wardens dead Aengus wasn’t too sure what good he and Alistair could do. They had the Treaties, Alistair had forgotten to put them in Duncan’s tent so they were still in his pack, and there was Arl Eamon at Redcliffe – but he knew nothing about the Order and Alistair not much more, and there was still the mystery of Teryn Loghain’s retreat. There must have been a reason for it, a surprise attack perhaps – something that forced him to withdraw.

“Perhaps you could ride after him to enquire?” Flemeth suggested dryly “But I would not recommend it, I do not know this Teryn Loghain but I am old enough to recognise betrayal when I see it.”

“But why…?” Aengus almost pleaded, it made no sense...

Alistair’s head snapped up from the fog of grief he had sunk into

“He just did, that’s why! Why did Howe...?” He reined himself in just in time “Oh...  Oh Aengus I... I’m sorry...”

“It’s alright...” Aengus assured him “I just don’t understand what’s happening...”

“What’s happening is a Blight” Flemeth interrupted “and that is what you must face. The treachery of men can be dealt with in its own time.”

“We should be on our way then...” Aengus got to his feet “Thank you once again for your aid, Mistress Flemeth.”

“I would head north-east” the old woman advised “There is a town where you can find supplies and perhaps some of the answers you seek; and there is one other piece of aid I can give, although whether you will be thankful for it is another matter...”

###

Maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea for Morrigan to accompany them.  A Mage was useful company, necessary even, given what they would be fighting – but Aengus would have preferred a more agreeable one.  Despite her sharp tongue he’d managed to have some genuinely interesting conversations with her about her magic and growing up in the Wilds, almost pleasant, but she took great delight in tormenting Alistair at every opportunity although, to be fair, he was just as bad with his snide comments about apostates, so could hardly complain. 

It was her blatant contempt for Alistair’s frequent bouts of grief that Aengus found hardest to deal with, even taking into account her bizarre and isolated upbringing.  He wasn’t sure what they’d said to each other while he was fetching more wood for the fire to boil water for breakfast, but Morrigan was fussing over her pack – muttering angrily to herself – while Alistair sat miserably on a log throwing stones into the stream.   

As he got closer he could see the man was crying.  His first impulse was to draw back, fearful that Alistair might find his intrusion unwelcome, but after a moment of hesitation he sat down beside him as he continued to sniffle and throw stones.

“Are… Are you going to be alright?” Aengus asked carefully “If you want to talk… about Duncan I mean…”

Alistair’s shoulder’s slumped and he turned to him with an attempt at a smile.

“You don’t have to do this Aengus.  Really… you don’t.  You didn’t know Duncan that well and… and you have your own…”

“I didn’t know him that well, it’s true…” Aengus agreed “But he saved my life, and I know how much he meant to you.” 

“Duncan… he was the first man to really treat me like I meant something…  I’m a bastard, you see...” Alistair threw another stone into the stream “I never knew my mother, she was a maid at Redcliffe Castle and died when I was a baby.  Some people thought Arl Eamon was my father, his wife certainly did.  She nagged at him until he sent me off to the Chantry... I was only 8...”

Every noble house had its fair share of bastards; whether sired by one of the family, or after a man-at-arms had tumbled a kitchen maid one too many times.  The better lords had those children raised under their roof, given a trade and a name, while the by-blow of some noble son might well get a very good start in life.  Pa had been notoriously faithful to Ma, but Fergus had a reputation for not keeping it in his breeches before he married Orianna – and the silversmith’s young apprentice on New Market Street had a very distinctive head of brick-red hair.

Most weren’t that lucky, even though some noble families of the Bannorn could proudly point to the offspring of a royal mistress as founder of their house, the majority of bastards – whether noble or common – ending up as clergy, Templars, or – if they manifested the ability – Mages within the Circle.  Alistair picked up another stone, staring at it as he turned it in his fingers

“It… it wasn’t a good life; the noble born looked down their noses while the other bastards resented me because I was castle born.  I only really had one friend and he was assigned to the Circle Tower just before Duncan recruited me…  Duncan, he…”

He was crying again, tears and snot running down his face as Aengus put an arm around his shoulders

“I’m sorry… Aengus, I… I really am…” Alistair wiped his nose on the back of his hand, snorting loudly “You… you lost your whole family and here I’m…”

Aengus tightened his grip on the other Warden’s shoulder, recalling Duncan on the road from Highever; pushing a grieving, resentful, young man just as far as he needed to clamber out of the pit he’d sunk into – then giving him the space and silence to mourn for the loved ones torn from him in a single night of blood and betrayal.  Now the man who’d dragged him to safety, snarling and spitting like an angry cat, was dead as well; perhaps the victim of a betrayal just as ruthless.

“It sounds like you’ve lost yours as well…  I was angry with Duncan at first, even punched him; I thought he should have left me with my parents, that If I’d stayed I could’ve done something to save them… but he was doing what Ma and Pa wanted, they wanted me to live so I could fight back.  He was a good man and I hated him for it, I just wish I could have let him know that I was grateful as well…”

_And one day I’m going to look into Rendon Howe’s eyes and he’ll know it’s Bryce Cousland’s son who’s killing him_

“He was a good man…” Alistair nodded in agreement, still wiping his face “He’d listen to me; he’d tell me I was being an idiot half the time, but he’d still listen to what I had to say… And the others, they’d always shift up to make room for me when I came into the dining hall and laugh at all my stupid jokes.  I’d never been anywhere I felt wanted before… or where I felt like I belonged.  Now they’re gone…”

“I grew up knowing I was wanted, surrounded by people who loved me and cared for me…  I honestly don’t know what’s worse – having that then losing it or being given it and just as suddenly have it taken away.” He rubbed the back of Alistair’s neck “What I do know is, when we find the men responsible -they’re going to pay.”

“Did you know he came from Highever?” Alistair asked, looking up as if he’d just remembered. Aengus nodded “When all this is over I was wondering, maybe, we might go there and have a few prayers said… perhaps a plaque?”

Aengus took his hand in both of his

“Alistair, I promise, when this is all over; Duncan and the other Wardens will have a sung requiem in the Cathedral and a monument beside the Castle gates.  It’s the least they deserve” he patted him on the back “Come on, we’d better finish breaking up camp; Morrigan already thinks we’re just a couple of useless cry-babies”

Alistair snorted in derision

“Morrigan can kiss my… my…” he floundered, years of Chantry discipline welling up, until finally blurting out “my… codpiece!”

Aengus laughed

“The other thing I’m going to do, before this is all over, is teach you how to swear properly!”

He stopped, he could feel it – that nauseous twist of the stomach like he’d drunk sour milk. Alistair’s reaction showed he sensed it too

“Darkspawn!” he hissed to Morrigan. The young woman nodded in acknowledgement and picked up her staff, a faint, cold smile on her face...

There were over a dozen, led by a big Alpha with an Emissary bringing up the rear. Having Morrigan with them now seemed a very good idea as flames burst from her fingertips, lines of fire weaving into a single blazing cone that flared out and enveloped three of the beasts, burning away armour and flesh faster than any natural inferno; the witch was more than competent; keeping herself out of range while hurling her magics at the archers.  Leaving the Emissary to Alistair and his Templar training, Aengus faced off against the Alpha.  The gurgling noise it made sounded almost like laughter as it hefted a double-bladed war-axe in both fists…

…the Genlock took him by surprise, appearing from nowhere and slicing at his side with a long, serrated, blade.  It didn’t penetrate his armour -  sparking off the Silverite scales - but it unbalanced him, and a root caught his ankle sending him sprawling on his back.  A bolt of crackling blue light hit the Genlock in the face, sending it into spasming convulsions, but the Alpha closed in – bringing its axe round for a strike that would split him wide open.  He twisted, bringing his shield up and round at an angle he prayed would deflect it…

The blow didn’t fall; instead there was a clattering and growling followed by high-pitched liquid shrieks.  Something had the Alpha on the ground, snarling and worrying at its throat. Aengus rolled to his feet, snatching up his sword and driving it deep into the creature’s body to finish it off.  Whatever had brought it down leapt at him, hitting him square in the chest and sending him back to the ground; he raised his arms instinctively to protect his face but instead was met by a tongue like a large, warm flannel lapping at him and a series of happy yelps.

“It’s all right! It’s all right!” he called out, holding up a hand to stop Alistair and Morrigan attacking “It... it’s Snapper!”

Snapper licked at his face again and barked, this time with a touch of reproach.  Master and his New Friend had gone off and left him in the place with the Strangers and not come back.  Good Stranger had let him and the other dogs out when the Bad Things came but it had been very hard to pick up Master’s scent. Luckily Master had the good sense to mark a lot of trees, so he could find him again!

“Good boy… good boy…” he mumbled, burying his face against Snappers neck to hide his tears from the others; petting and scratching at the Mabari’s head and flanks; the Ostagar Kennel-master must have released the dogs when the camp was overrun.  Duncan thought it would be best for him in the kennels rather than running loose around the Tower.  It made sense, even though Aengus hated it, they weren’t meant to be going into battle – and Duncan was… had been… his commander.  He’d tried hard not to think about what might have happened, that he’d lost the only other living thing to escape the slaughter at Highever; for now, he couldn’t think or feel anything except the joy of having his oldest friend back with him.

Morrigan rolled her eyes

“Wonderful! Now there are three of them to slobber, break wind, and urinate on anything that doesn’t move…” she unsheathed a long, curved knife. “Fear not, I shall ensure that all the Darkspawn are indeed safely dead while you enjoy your happy reunion”

###

Lothering stood just off the Imperial Highway where it intersected with a small river and a lesser, local, road.  Prosperous looking and larger than Aengus expected; the main market centre for local farms and villages, as well as any Chasind who came North to trade pelts and furs.  Timber-framed houses surrounded a large central square with an impressive Chantry and neighbouring Cloister, the bulk of the town surrounded by a well-tended earth rampart topped by a wooden palisade.  Only the gatehouses were built of stone, testament to the place’s wealth and civic pride.  Those defences would be sufficient to deter wild beasts, bandits and all but the largest and most determined Chasind or Avvar raiding-band; the Darkspawn Horde would simply surge over them, leaving nothing but charred ruins and blackened, tainted, earth in their wake. 

Tents and makeshift shelters clustered near the gates; refugees either catching their breath and trying to gather supplies or seeking the illusory safety of Lothering’s walls.  There were hundreds of them – scared, hungry and desperate with little idea of what to do or where would be safe.  He didn’t need Alistair to point out the lack of soldiers, the bandits who’d blatantly barricaded the Highway just outside town was evidence of that

Apart from a few watchmen on the ramparts the only armed presence visible as they approached was two harassed-looking young Templars arguing with a group of farmers at the gate. They waved the small group through with hardly a glance. 

“I’d keep moving if I were you…” one of them, a lad about Aengus and Alistair’s age, advised “Lothering’s done for…”

There were answers to be found in the town, but only the sort that carried more questions with them.  Loghain’s army had passed by about a week or more ago, marching North to Denerim.  The Bann and his soldiers joined him on that march, Lothering’s lesser gentry and many of its wealthier citizens following in their wake.  Only the Templar Knight-Captain and the hundred or so men under his command remained to offer what help and protection they could muster. 

Loghain had proclaimed himself Regent, so the whispers said, and was calling a Landsmeet to confirm himself in power.  The Grey Wardens he branded traitors, responsible for leading the King to his death in a foolish quest for glory.  Even more worrying were rumours that the Arl of Redcliffe lay near to death and his knights were questing for the fabled Urn of Ashes in hope of a miraculous cure.  Each new person they spoke to had a different story from the last, but every one rancid with the stink of fear and doubt. 

Aengus found it harder to doubt Alistair’s assertions of Loghain’s deliberate treachery; if Arl Eamon were truly sick then it was convenient that the two men who could best challenge the Teryn’s assumption of power would not be present at the Landsmeet.  Howe would not have turned his blades against the Couslands if he wasn’t sure such an act would be approved or welcomed.  A dark, brooding, anger gathered deep inside him at the thought he might have shaken the hand of, accepted condolences from, the man who’d ordered the murder of his family…

The Templar at the gates was right, there was no point in staying here any longer than necessary.  There was a chance they could get supplies, and maybe a bottle or two of wine, at the Inn but after that it was time to leave…

“Hssst…. Grey Wardens! Over here!”

Aengus motioned Alistair and Morrigan to stay back as he carefully approached the man beckoning to them from the alley between two houses. Scrapper trotted alongside him, alert for trouble

“You were at Ostagar…” The man stated; he was young, black-haired and bearded, no obvious weapons except for a dagger at his belt “Saw you in the King’s Camp…”

“You were with the army…” Aengus felt his hand tighten round the hilt of his sword “You ran”

The other man spat in the dust at his feet.

“When they broke our lines; anyone who didn’t is Darkspawn shit now.  That bastard Loghain left us all to die and I have family to look after…” he nodded in the direction of Aengus’ sword “and you have more to worry about than a deserter, Ser Warden.  There’s soldiers in Dane’s, Loghain’s men, looking for you and your friend – although now they’re just getting drunk and throwing their weight about.”

Aengus relaxed his grip. The man was right; if he challenged everyone who’d run from that field of slaughter he’d be fighting from here to Denerim.

“How do you know it’s us they’re looking for?”

The man laughed, shaking his head a little

“Two Wardens, both red haired; one carries a Templar shield, the other accompanied by a reddish-brown Mabari.  Not too tough to work out” He leaned against the wall of one of the houses, crossing his arms casually “According to their story, the Wardens convinced the King to join them on the front lines – wanting to curry favour by winning him a bit of ‘glory’ – and the two of you are confederates of the head Warden.”

“That’s a lie…” Aengus hissed “Duncan wanted the King to hold back.  It was Cailan who…”

The man held up a placatory hand

“Hey, you don’t have to convince me!  I’ve got nothing bad to say about the Wardens; just warning you to watch yourselves.  There’s five of them and pretty well armed; two archers and three swordsmen.”

Aengus let out a breath, treating each encounter like a duel waiting to happen would get them nowhere; this man was being helpful, not insulting the honour of the Wardens. 

“My apologies! Thank you for your warning, Ser…?”

The dark-haired man grinned and held out his hand

“Hawke will do fine – I’m no ‘Ser’. If you need any help while you’re here just ask; everyone knows me.”

Aengus grasped his hand firmly and shook it with a grateful smile

“Thank you, Hawke, I will; but we’re not planning on staying long, the Horde isn’t far behind…” he paused “We’re heading to Redcliffe after this.  If you and your family want to come with us, you can get a boat across Lake Calenhad from there.”

Hawke looked as if he was considering this for a moment then shrugged

“Thanks, but it seems like you’re marching into more trouble than we can handle.  We’ll look after ourselves just fine…”

###

He sought out Hawke again, just before they left, making the same offer and receiving the same answer.  Maker grant the man’s confidence was well-founded.  Only a couple of merchants – Levi the Trader, and the Dwarf Bodhan with his simple-minded son – seized the opportunity of travelling in armed company and departed with them.  The rest of Lothering remained where it was, afraid equally to stay or go.  Knight-Captain Bryant and his men would mount what defence they could, but Aengus had seen in the older man’s eyes the look of someone who knew his death approached fast.  Morrigan might pour contempt upon the Chantry, but Lothering’s clergy and Templars had not abandoned the faithful who put their trust in them.

They kept moving till late, putting as much distance between them and the town as physically possible.  They were a strange crowd, Aengus thought as he watched them settle for the night.  Sister Leliana, who used her bow and blades like a trained assassin, sat with breviary in hand, murmuring the Evening Prayers; Sten, the taciturn Qunari who may butchered an entire family, apparently winning a staring contest with Snapper and, in the background, Alistair and Morrigan bickering over some triviality.  He laughed quietly to himself, perhaps this was how the Grey Wardens began back in the days of the First Blight; a bunch of arguing misfits pulled together by one overwhelming need.  If so, they were off to a good start...

On the third night Sandal came running up to him, tugging mutely on his sleeve and pulling him towards the ridge behind which they’d camped.  Followed by the others he allowed himself to be led to the crest and looked in the direction where the boy was frantically pointing.  Far to the south they could see the red glow of flames reflecting off the clouds.

“Maker have mercy on them…” Leliana whispered, tears welling in her eyes

“Maker ‘ave mercy on all of us” Levi the Trader muttered, returning to the fire to attend to the boiling tea-kettle.

 


	7. Funeral Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denerim is deep in mourning and rife with whispers, an empty throne presenting danger and opportunity in equal measure. Still a 'guest' of the Arl of Amaranthine, Sophia strives to keep abreast of the lethal game she has been drawn into while Zevran makes his first significant move.  
> \------------------------------------------------------

The silk-swaddled chickens, still clucking and scratching in the Great Hall, might be surprised to see the ‘Peasant Teryn’ enjoying a bowl of tea rather than slurping down a flagon of ale.  He’d picked up the taste from Maric, who got it from his mother. ‘Clears the head’, Maric told him and Loghain needed his head cleared right now; that snide bastard Teagan had all but accused him of murdering Cailan in front of the entire Landsmeet.  Fine words for a man who’d been five-score miles or more away from the battle. 

“Perhaps you should have had me deal with the Guerrins as well?” Howe suggested, picking up a paperweight from the desk and examining it. Antivan work, certainly, the glassworks of Rialto were famous for their craftsmanship; purple irises embedded in clear, crystalline, glass – how they managed such miracles was a secret guarded as close as any state papers.

“Like you ‘dealt’ with the Couslands?” Loghain snarled “That was…”

“Necessary.” Howe replied firmly “Taking them hostage would have required too many men and involved a great many complications we can’t afford.”

Loghain set his tea down and glowered at the smaller man, reflecting how he could happily wring Howe’s neck.  The man was despicable, interested only in his own petty advantages and grudges, but he had skills and resources that the Teryn needed if he was to turn this mess around

“And the Trevelyan girl? Taking her hostage _doesn’t_ involve complications?”

Howe shrugged

“Having her as my _guest_ involves fewer than her death would have entailed.  Her family is powerful, with influence and connections far beyond the Free Marches, and Count Boniface a pragmatic man; he will see the advantages of an alliance, with the right incentives.  Her presence was unexpected, Bryce kept the marriage negotiations very private, I had to improvise.” The Arl paused, putting the paperweight back “Much like you did at Ostagar…”

“Do you think I enjoyed abandoning Cailan?” Loghain snapped, slamming the palm of his hand against the wall “If he hadn’t been so pig-headed about being on the front lines with those damned Wardens…  Good men died there, loyal Fereldans…”

“Including my son” Howe stated, neither his voice nor his eyes betraying any emotion

“Including Thomas…” Loghain sighed heavily “I am truly sorry for that”

“We must all be prepared to make such sacrifices…” the Arl conceded “and there is still Nathaniel”

Safely in the Free Marches, Loghain recalled, far removed from his father’s machinations and the dangers of the war.  The sympathy he felt receded, his resentment at having to use a creature like the Arl of Amaranthine taking its place

“Unfortunate that Warden Commander Duncan and the younger Cousland lad slipped through your ‘improvisation’; perhaps you’re not as thorough as you pretend…”

Mean-spirited though it was, he enjoyed the disconcerted expression on Howe’s face

“That… well, yes; it was unfortunate – but I imagine the Darkspawn have taken care of that oversight”

“Don’t be so sure…” Loghain snorted “Duncan sent him and Maric’s bastard to light the signal beacon, well away from the fighting… I’ve left scouts behind to watch the road, just in case.”

“They’re just boys…” Howe responded, uncomfortable under Loghain’s steady scrutiny “Even if they survived, what can two boys do?”

“Maric and I were their age when we first met” Loghain reminded him “Believe me, with the right motivation, two boys can do a very great deal…”

###

Aengus’s rose… she’d put it in her jewel-box for safe keeping; now there were just loose petals, curled and drying, scattered across the velvet.  Sophia picked them out, one by one, and they lay in the palm of her hand as she pondered how to keep them safe.  He’d been so nervous, and so tender, when he handed it to her; the way his face lit up when she accepted it – and him.  He would have had a sword in his hand when they took him down, she knew that in her heart.  She’d watched him in the morning of that terrible day, sparring with his older brother before Fergus marched his men south; even in the laughing play-fight she could see his skill.  Howe’s men wouldn’t have surprised him in bed with a knife to his throat… Alone for the moment, she could let her tears flow freely

Andraste, let it still be in here!  She rummaged through the disordered contents of the ivory-inlaid chest.  Howe had given his assurance that her belongings were unpillaged, but there was no doubt they had been thoroughly searched.  Sophia breathed a small sigh of relief as her fingers closed on a familiar shape within a silk pouch.  She recalled the afternoon playing cards in the garden with Mama and Jonas; Papa strolling down the terrace with a jaunty smile to bring her the portrait locket just arrived from Highever. 

It was a masterwork, Teryn Bryce had clearly overcome the Fereldan prejudice against anything Orlesian to engage one of Val Royeaux’s finest miniature painters, but it didn’t capture the way the sunlight caught the hints of gold in his fiery red hair; or how he ducked his head and smiled whenever she caught him looking at her.  This, her memories, and a handful of rosepetals were all that was left of the boy she’d kissed by the fountain.

_Blessed Lady, guide him safely to the Maker’s side…_

She tipped the petals into the pouch with the locket and tucked it securely beneath the neckline of her gown; promising herself she would remember, even if all others forgot.

Denerim was in mourning.  The first news of the disaster at Ostagar and the death of the King brought chaos to the streets and squares; The Arl’s soldiers ‘assisting’ the undermanned King’s Patrol in restoring and maintaining order, while Howe strengthened his grip on the city. Teryn Loghain’s arrival with his army and much of the Bannorn in tow brought a superficial calm but little relief. Many in the city grieved for friends or kinfolk lost with the King’s army; even the Arl had not been spared. Sophia prayed earnestly to be forgiven the stab of cruel satisfaction she felt on hearing that Lord Thomas, Howe’s youngest son, was among the fallen. He was no guiltier of his father’s crimes than Delilah and news of his death had shattered the one person in this city she could think of as a friend...

Draping a veil of finely worked Hercinia lace over her hair, Sophia picked up her rosary and prayer book then tapped on the door to attract the attention of the guards. It was Freckles and Squint again, although she had learned their names by now.  Freckled Joff had an ailing mother in Amaranthine while Squinting Bevan was sweet on the black-haired Elven maid who changed her bed-linen. Neither of them was unkind, as jailers went, and a corner of her mind hoped neither had been among the soldiers at Highever. 

“Would you escort me to the Chantry, please? I would keep Lady Delilah company in her devotions”

She knew the way to the house-Chantry by now, one of the handful of chambers to which her life here was limited.  It was easy to pretend that it was an honour guard, not an escort, that followed her along the broad gallery and down the curving stairs to the main floor. 

Only the Eternal Flame in Andraste’s hands, and the candles burning before a portrait of Lord Thomas on the Altar, illuminated the little chantry.  Two Chanters stood to either side, intoning the Chant from memory; Sophia couldn’t understand the archaic form of Fereldan in which the Chant was sung, but from the cadence and rhythm she could tell it was the Canticle of Trials.

Sophia knelt beside Delilah and murmured a quiet prayer, looking at the painting on the Altar.  Thomas Howe was young, no older than her, and not even a soldier – one of the King’s squires, charged with tending his armour and preparing the Royal bath.  Another innocent swallowed up by the gathering madness. 

She concentrated on the sound of the Chant to calm her mind.  The Old Fereldan had a deep, solemn, rhythm – rather than the rolling, liquid, Tevene she was familiar with – appropriate for rites of mourning.  As they sang, the Chanters tended the censer that also burned on the Altar; myrrh and benzoin, heavy notes of grief mingled with the fragrance of the Maker’s Paradise awaiting the spirits of the Just.  There would be no cremation for Thomas or any of the others whose remains lay scattered at Ostagar.  Once the family Priest had sung the final requiem, the ashes of the censer would be sealed in an urn and placed in the crypt.  A poor substitute, but one that tradition said would still allow the soul to find its way back to its source.

“They say father had the Couslands burned on the common pyre…” Delilah whispered “Their ashes scattered. Perhaps this is our punishment; the Maker’s judgement for our impiety…”

Sophia reached out and took the other woman’s hand

“You must not think that…” she whispered back earnestly “The Maker’s Justice falls only on the sinner, not the guiltless.  This is Man’s doing, not His…”

Delilah glanced fearfully at her.  Teryn Loghain claimed his retreat to be a tragic necessity, the only way to save the remainder of the army from the rout which claimed the King’s life.  That tragic necessity made him ruler of Ferelden in all but name, with Rendon Howe his constant companion.

“It is true, the Wardens led the King into this folly” Delilah answered, even in this sanctuary she couldn’t be sure father didn’t have ears.  Chanters could be bribed like any man and their vows did not prohibit the written word “Teryn Loghain says he could have dissuaded him, if it weren’t for Duncan…”

The prayer-book fell from Sophia’s hands with a loud thump, causing the Chanters to falter briefly, and she felt a dizzy sickness rising in her.

“Sophia! Are you alright?” Delilah exclaimed in alarm, seeing her friend slumping forward “What’s the matter?”

“I… I feel… I feel faint, it… it must the air in here…” Sophia stammered “I… I can’t breathe…”

Delilah got to her feet and helped Sophia to stand, guiding her towards the door

“We’ll go into the garden; we’ve both been indoors too long – it isn’t healthy.”

She assisted the younger woman out of the house and into the garden, the guards tailing behind.  As she sat Sophia down on one of the benches, Delilah turned to them

“Donna Sophia is unwell, leave us for a moment.”

“But… milady…” Squinting Bevan began, Howe’s ‘guest’ was to have constant escort and the company of the Lady Delilah might not qualify in her father’s eyes.

“I said, _Leave Us!_ ” Delilah snapped, throwing all the sharp impatience she could muster into her normally placid tones.  The guards saluted anxiously and withdrew to the garden door; Howe was just as likely to have them flogged for defying his daughter if the mood was on him.

“What is it, Sophia… what did I say?” Delilah asked, once the guards were out of earshot.  They would only have a few minutes at most.  Sophia took another deep breath to still the spinning and buzzing in her head

“You… you said Duncan…  The Warden-Commander?”

Delilah nodded, uncertain how this news could be so unsettling

“Yes, Loghain says it was him who convinced the King to join the Wardens on the front line.  They’ve been declared outlaw, traitors to the crown…”

“Duncan, he… he was at Highever…” Sophia exhaled slowly, finally gaining a little control “He turned up on the last day, to recruit one of the Teryn’s knights.  I saw the look on your father’s face, he wasn’t expecting him… I don’t think he’d been expecting me either…”

Duncan must surely have told the King, and almost certainly Loghain, of the treachery at Highever; had that been what prompted the Teryn to act?

“You think, if Duncan managed to escape then others might have? Aengus…?”

Sophia shook her head

“I can’t torment myself with foolish hopes, Delilah, it hurts too much already…”

Delilah bowed her head a little

“I know, I keep hoping that all this isn’t true; that we’re going to get a message saying Thomas is alive and being cared for in a cloister somewhere.” She fell silent, then looked up as a thought struck her “I have a friend at the palace, one of the Queen’s ladies, I can ask if she’s heard anything.  It won’t seem suspicious, everyone is desperate for any sort of news these days.”

“Would you?” Sophia gripped her friend’s hands tightly “I know it’s foolish, but if there’s even a chance; just to know one way or another…”

“My dears! I have been looking everywhere for you…”

The women flinched at the sound of Howe’s voice as he approached across the lawn, accompanied by a stern-faced young woman in armour bearing the livery of Teryn Loghain

“Father…” Delilah composed herself, trying not to look or sound too guilty.  The Arl had been absent from the mansion for days, his return unexpected “Sophia was unwell, she needed air.”

Howe waived his hand dismissively

“I am not surprised, these are trying times, especially for those of delicate constitution. I trust you are feeling better?”

“Much better, thank you, My Lord” Sophia took his proffered hand as she rose “We were in the Chantry and…”

“Hmmm yes… It is very stuffy in there” Howe nodded thoughtfully “I have just come from the Regent; he wishes you to be presented, as a courtesy due your rank.  Delilah and her ladies will get you ready and Ser Cauthrien will escort you to the Palace.”

“My thanks, Ser” Sophia dropped a gracious little curtsey to the Knight “I will endeavour not to keep His Grace waiting.”

“You need not rush, My Lady” Ser Cauthrien sounded polite but distant “The Regent has several pieces of business to conclude this afternoon.”

Howe tutted, as if to himself as they made their way back indoors

“It appears your escort took advantage of Donna Sophia’s indisposition to slacken in their duty…” he remarked, conversationally, to Delilah as they made their way back indoors “I shall see they are duly reprimanded.”

“Father, I told them…” Delilah began, hastily; the Arl’s idea of ‘due reprimand’ meant neither man would have any skin left on his back come nightfall

Howe shook his head with a dry chuckle

“They take their orders from me, my sweet, not you. Always remember that”

###

The Royal Palace stood halfway up the side of the hill around which Denerim crept, a motley conglomeration of Ages and styles with no apparent unifying layout or design.  Some Orlesian viceroy, during the occupation, had attempted to renovate the Forecourt with a new façade and an elaborate fountain. The fountain stood dry, a roost for pigeons, while the Valmont Lions had been chiselled away or recarved as Mabari.  The palace apartments possessed a certain old-fashioned dignity; Fereldan taste clearly ran to plain, finished, stone and richly carved woodwork.  Colour came from the tapestries adorning the walls, scenes from the Life of the Prophet and Fereldan history, against which the sombre mourning-dress of the courtiers stood out sharply. 

Sophia kept her eyes firmly ahead as she followed Ser Cauthrien through the maze of halls and galleries, but she could sense the glances thrown in her direction; some curious, a few sympathetic.  With the King dead and no clear successor, anxiety and uncertainty filled the air of the palace, heavy and thick with whispered rumours; any new face, especially a foreign one, prompted fresh speculation and gossip.

“This is not a formal presentation” Ser Cauthrien informed her as they approached the hall leading to the Teryn’s chambers “His Lordship merely wishes to assure himself of your wellbeing, given your status and the unusual circumstances of your presence.”

“I am grateful for his consideration…” Sophia replied meekly “especially when so many matters press for his attention.”

“Your father is a man of great consequence and significant rank” Ser Cauthrien responded, blunt and matter-of-fact “It would be… inappropriate… for the Regent not to receive you.”

Sophia took a moment to calm herself, breathing a silent prayer as the knight knocked on the door of the Teryn’s apartments.  She knew nothing of the man who now ruled Ferelden and feared he might prove a greater danger than Howe ever could.

###

Teryn Loghain observed the girl carefully as she made her curtseys and offered condolences on the death of the King and the other losses suffered at Ostagar.  She looked younger than her seventeen years. Perhaps it was the way she wore her hair, loose and unbraided – held by a net of fine gold threads, or the uncertainty and fear lurking behind the calm veneer of her breeding; a child plunged into an adult’s world and anxiously feeling her way.  It was clear why Bryce wanted her as a bride for young Aengus and why Howe sought to claim her for his own son, she was truly lovely and with her dowry came the power and influence of the Trevelyan family and its allies.

The Most Excellent Count Boniface di Castrotrevalli presided over a clan with half a dozen branches stretching from Antiva to Nevarra, two score or so of vassal and client houses and a web of alliances forged through marriage and trade; a net as golden as the one binding his daughter’s hair and which had ensured the family’s position for Ages.  He’d looked up their genealogy in the palace library, like many of the oldest Marcher families they descended from Imperial Tevinter stock – in this case one Travalian Pavus, a Provincial Legate in the last years before the Blessed Andraste’s Exalted March changed the face of Thedas.

Howe must have wet his small clothes at the thought of gaining such an alliance for himself, never mind that the Lord of House Trevelyan would sooner bestow his daughter on one of his own servants than willingly give her to the son of a virtual outcaste like the Arl of Amaranthine.  Better to put her on the first ship back to Ostwick with Howe’s head in a cask of brandy by way of apology. It’s what Maric would have done and it’s what he should do – if he didn’t need the man to help him deal with the unruly Bannorn.

The map-sized genealogical chart bore the family motto engraved into the heavy vellum in letters of gold; _Humilis Ingenii, Audax in Re_ – Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed.  The child was modest, that was for certain; eyes downcast and hands demurely folded as she awaited his signal to rise. It would be interesting to see how boldly her father responded to Howe’s insult.

“I will pass your condolences to my daughter” Loghain beckoned her to rise and take a seat in the window-bay while a servant poured them tea “She is deep in mourning, and receiving no one at present”

It was a necessary fiction.  If Anora mourned anything it was her failure to heed his advice about being more diligent in securing an heir.  Cailan was no boylover, despite what malicious rumour might hint, a little effort on her part and they could have been spared a great many problems. He had to admit, in all fairness, none of the palace maids or tavern wenches Cailan tumbled had ever shown signs of a swollen belly. The Theirin line had never been noted for its fertility so it was not impossible Maric had sired a dry branch.

“I pray for her daily...” Sophia assured him “and for all Ferelden in this terrible time”

“We could certainly use a little divine aid” Loghain dismissed the servant with a nod of his head “I know it’s more customary to drink coffee at this hour, but you’ll be hard pressed to find a Fereldan who can make a drinkable cup.”

Sophia smiled her thanks as she accepted the tea he offered, raising the delicate porcelain bowl to her nose to savour the aroma.  It smelled rich and faintly spiced, like the dark Seheron teas Great Aunt Lucille favoured, black and with the merest hint of lemon

“Perhaps a last legacy of the Rebellion?” she suggested shyly, earning a laugh from Loghain; a surprisingly pleasant, throaty sound

“Perhaps indeed…” he agreed “Hitting them where it hurts!”

This Teryn Loghain was not the armoured ogre she half expected, nor the crude peasant of rumour and spiteful gossip; a man of about her father’s age, tall and stalwart with the bearing of a master swordsman - he had the look of someone who still trained daily and intended to keep doing so as long as his hand could grip a sword.  Only a few strands of grey showed in the thick black hair that fell to his collar and the eyes that regarded her astutely were a sharp, slate grey.  The Teryn was still an extremely handsome man in a stern, unyielding, way; the face of a man more used to battlefields and hard campaigning than council chambers or courtly receptions.

“I fear your visit to Ferelden has not been a pleasant one, my Lady; I regret that you have been dragged into dark matters, and not without personal loss.”

“It has been difficult, my Lord, and painful. The death of my companions...” she hesitated, placing the tea-bowl carefully, her hands trembling with the memory “They were my friends, as well as my servants. Arl Howe has been... understanding... I suppose I owe him my life.”

“These are dangerous times, and treason invites a harsh response.  It is tragic when innocents are caught up in such affairs, but the arrival of the Orlesian Warden required the Arl to act swiftly; and with less care than he might otherwise have used.”

The Warden; his arrival had unsettled Howe, she remembered that well, but Teryn Bryce had clearly been expecting him – some matter of recruiting one of the Teryn’s knights for the Order.  Had that been the only reason for his visit?  The Wardens had been expelled from Ferelden two Ages past, following a rebellion against the crown, and only recently permitted to return; according to the official proclamations their loyalties were compromised, agents of Orlais seeking to gain advantage.  She folded her hands carefully in her lap, aware of Loghain’s sharp eyes on her as he awaited a response.

“I am certain my father knew nothing of the Teryn’s intentions, My Lord, he would not have…”

Loghain raised his hand with a faintly reassuring smile

“I am sure Count Boniface played no part in Bryce’s scheming, but there are questions to be answered – as the Arl has no doubt intimated.  Did you speak to the Warden at all?” he nodded towards the bowl on the table “Your tea is getting cold…”

“A little, at dinner, we spoke only of the Grey Wardens” Sophia picked up the bowl and took a sip, trying to keep her voice from shaking “My little brother, Jonas, is fascinated by them”

“Little boys do love their heroes” Loghain’s faint smile turned broader, seeming genuinely amused “Do you know who mine was?”

She shook her head, puzzled by this sudden turn in the conversation

“Dane…” The Teryn continued “He was a great Alamarri warrior, before the time of the Second Blight.  They say he spent a year and a day as a werewolf after killing a White Hart.  My father had a ragged old wolf-pelt he used as a bed-cover.  I’d put it over my head and run roaring about the village pretending to be him…”

Sophia couldn’t help herself giggling a little at the image, earning a slight smile in return. She cleared her throat

“Then later, you and King Maric defeated the Orlesians at the river named after him”

Loghain nodded in approval

“You know your history. I truly felt he was with me that day…” he fell silent briefly “They also say that Dane had a pack of wolves who were the ancestors of the Mabari Hounds.  Do you know why Fereldans revere Mabari so much?”

“I have no idea, my lord; although they are truly fine hounds…”

“They are indeed…” Loghain finished his tea “The Mabari is fierce, relentless and completely loyal; he will never turn against his master. There is a lot to be learned from them”

There was a meaning under the Teryn’s words, although she could not be sure precisely what.  The chiming of the palace clock coincided with a rap on the door and Loghain got to his feet, forestalling any further questions

“That will be Ser Cauthrien to escort you back to your host. It has been a pleasure talking to you, my Lady; when my daughter emerges from seclusion we will have you at court again.  She lacks suitable companionship.”

###

A whorehouse was the only place Zevran truly felt at home, stirring up memories of the perfumed, silk draped chambers he’d played in as a child and the doting “aunts and uncles” who fussed over him and fed him sweets.  Such a charmed life could not last and the Elf counted himself fortunate it was the Signor Rafalli who purchased him from the Madame when she finally decided he was one too many bastards to raise under her roof.

Once or twice he’d wondered if Rafalli was his father, or some kin of his mother, or whether a kindly Fate had taken a hand in directing the Trevelyan Spymaster to Antiva City and the House of Three Lanterns on that day.  It did not matter; his life was good, if often dangerous, and he was his own master save for those particular missions required as repayment for the cost of his training and education.  There were many less congenial forms of slavery in Thedas. 

The Pearl was a fine place to begin his work in Ferelden.  Once deemed old enough, Zevran served his final apprenticeship in the House of Forgotten Joy – Ostwick City’s most refined and discreet brothel – where he learned the most important art of the courtesan; how to make your client believe they are the truly special one.  People confided to their whore things they would not admit even to their Confessor; the sacred exchange of coin purchasing a silence deeper than any of the lost Thaigs.  A subtle and skilful man or woman could do much with a few small admissions.

The cloud of grief and foreboding hanging over the city filled the Brothels as full as the Chantries, and Madame Sanga was ready to welcome the services of one trained under the renowned Madame Jocasta of the Forgotten Joy; once his bona-fides had been confirmed and he demonstrated his skills to her satisfaction. A new face, especially an exotic and pretty one, would be sure to draw in the coin.

It had taken a mere day or two to ascertain that Donna Sophia, while undoubtedly held against her will, was in no personal danger – as least as long as this Arl Howe was presented with the possibility of a marriage-alliance – and it would take more than one man, no matter how skilled, to safely extract her from confinement. Signor Rafalli had been quite emphatic, the safety of the young Signorina was of paramount importance; if Zevran could not assure this himself he was to examine other possibilities, and the gossip of Denerim was hinting at some very interesting alternatives indeed.

He turned his attention to the man twitching and snoring on the bed beside him, a guard-captain from the Garrison at Fort Drakon, who had shared some interesting scraps as Zevran’s adept fingers teased out the knots of tension in the muscles of his back and thighs.  It appeared Arl Howe, and his master the Regent, were _very_ interested in the whereabouts and identity of two young Grey Wardens rumoured to have survived the slaughter at Ostagar; interested enough for Howe to have made overtures to certain of his countrymen to help resolve the matter. 

These two brave youths would doubtless be in need of allies, and he was in a position to offer them a great deal of aid – should they agree to assist him in the affair of liberating a young lady of pure heart and noble blood. 

Looking for two Wardens in a land the size of Ferelden posed a far more enticing challenge than anything on offer here.  There were whispers of strange happenings in the city of Redcliffe, and at the Tower of the Magi on Lake Calenhad; Grey Wardens were drawn to strange happenings, it gave him somewhere to begin.  Leaving Denerim would not give him any great sorrow; the city possessed a chaotic charm, but the stink would bring tears to a dead man’s eyes and the filth of the streets was ruinous to fine boots! 

The ball of wax he’d been kneading was now sufficiently softened to take an impression of the guard-captain’s seal ring.  Satisfied with its clarity, he placed it carefully in a small case alongside half a dozen similar imprints and stowed it away safely.  They could be made into useable copies later with time and a little lead.  He sighed softly to himself and shook the sleeping man awake; no doubt he would want his full two-sovereign’s worth, at least his speed compensated for his clumsiness.  The guard-captain raised himself on one elbow, grinning and bleary-eyed

“Up for round two already…?”

“You are a bull among men, _Mi Amor_ ” Zevran assured him with a heartmelting smile “but I shall endeavour to keep up with your pace…”


	8. The Dead of Redcliffe - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of a two-part chapter  
> A grisly encounter on the road to Redcliffe suggests that traitors and darkspawn aren't the only threats the two young Wardens and their companions have to face...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Warnings***  
> some violence and mild horror

Redcliffe was roughly another day away at the rate they were going, Sten grumbling they would be faster on foot rather than the steady pace of Bhodan and Levi’s carts. Perhaps he might, but not everyone had the apparently inexhaustible stamina of the Qunari.

Privately, Aengus would have preferred to be on foot as well.  Sitting in the back of Levi’s wagon gave him too much time to brood, although Alistair – perched beside the trader on the buckboard – was clearly enjoying speculating about what might be found at Soldiers Peak. In other circumstances, the idea of exploring a fortress abandoned for almost two Ages would have excited Aengus, the kind of mischief he and Fergus would plot and scheme over...

He knew he shouldn’t build up his hopes about finding Fergus at Redcliffe, but it was impossible not to. Morrigan was harsh, but realistic, when she stated that if his brother was alive he was probably lost somewhere in the vastness of the Wilds – but if he had survived and had made it North then Redcliffe would be his likely first stop.

Pa and Arl Eamon had been friends since the days of the Rebellion, the Guerrins and the Couslands visited each other often; Fergus could be sure of shelter there...  His thoughts were interrupted by Morrigan’s angry cry

“Mangy beast! Get your filthy nose out of my pack!”

“Hey! Don’t talk to him like that!”

Scrapper slunk the short distance over to Aengus with an aggrieved whine and an expression of hurt innocence. Morrigan simply glared 

“Well, if you are content for him to eat my entire stock of medicinal herbs you can be the one to clean up the mess he will most assuredly make; _and_ gather a new supply for the next time you and the simpleton need patching up!”

“Hoi! I _can_ hear you know...” Alistair retorted, turning in his seat

“I never implied you were deaf...” Morrigan answered with acid sweetness, securing her pack against any further intrusion

“Should we think about finding somewhere to camp?” Levi asked with a hint of nervousness, if the three of them were going to start fighting he’d rather it wasn’t in the back of the wagon – some of his goods were flammable “It’s getting near sunset”

###

They made camp in a meadow that sloped gently down to a small river. Cattle had been grazing there until recently, judging by what Scrapper found to roll in, but there was no sign of herd or herdsman...

“We have seen no-one on the road, no one at all, don’t you find that odd?” Leliana asked as Aengus set down an armful of firewood.

He hadn’t been paying that much attention but, now that she mentioned it, the Highway had been devoid of other travellers. He’d just been glad there were no bandits or Darkspawn to deal with

“Any stragglers from Lothering are likely further behind us...” he suggested “and I doubt anyone is in a hurry to venture south”

She shook her head, frowning slightly

“No, no that’s not what I mean... There are no locals, no farm traffic. Surely everyone can’t have fled already?”

The question troubled him.  This close to the largest town in South-West Ferelden there should have been at least a few messengers, merchants or farm-folk going to and fro.  The road to Lothering had been busier than this.  He glanced up from laying the tinder and matchwood in the firepit, meeting her gaze; for all her fade-touched rambling and sometimes distracted air there was a sharpness about Sister Leliana.  She hadn’t learned to fight in the cloister, that was for certain.  Either the life of a travelling minstrel in Orlais was exceptionally dangerous or there were things about her past she’d chosen not to share. 

He sat back on his heels, pulling flint and steel from his pouch

“You’re right, we should set a double watch tonight.”

Alistair sat himself down beside them with a heavy thump, rummaging in a large leather sack

“We’ve got dried beef, two smoked sausages, half a ham, one cabbage, a loaf of stale bread, the last of the cheese and half-a-dozen wrinkled potatoes” he looked at the two of them brightly “I could make another stew…”

“NO!” they both yelped in alarm. Aengus cleared his throat seeing the other man’s expression of hurt surprise

“Someone… else… should… take a turn at cooking, it’s not fair that you do it every night…” He breathed an inward sigh of relief as Alistair appeared to accept this “Anyway, I’d bet you a sovereign there’s trout in that river.  I’ll show you a trick I learned…”

###

“What does this have to do with gathering food?” Sten asked as Aengus unlaced the cuffs of his breeches and pulled them well above his knees. His boots and socks already lay on the riverbank. 

“Don’t you have poachers where you come from, Sten?” Aengus stepped into the water, catching his breath; at this time of year it was still icy cold but felt good on his skin.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper bath and was sure that all of them stank.  The massive warrior pondered the question for a moment before answering with the solemn finality of a judge

“I understand that word to mean one who steals.  In Par Vollen food is raised by farmers, herders and fishers to be shared by the community.  To steal from the community is a grave offence.”

“It’s a hanging crime here…” Alistair told him “but sometimes the only way a poor family can get meat on the table.”

The slight shift in Sten’s expression might have been surprise

“Then the offence is on the part of the community leaders, for failing to ensure that produce is distributed according to need.  Such a thing is not tolerated under the Qun.”

“I… have to agree with you, Sten” Aengus hopped carefully onto a large rock near an overhanging bank, carefully balancing himself before crouching down to scan the riverbed “But some lords care more for their revenues than the well-being of their people.”

“Your father – he was not such a lord?”

Alistair winced at the directness of Sten’s question; even despite their growing friendship he was still cautious of raising the subject of Aengus’s family until he chose to mention it.  He couldn’t see Aengus’s face, but the tensing of his shoulders said plenty.

“He was not…” Aengus replied eventually, his voice quiet and even “He once said he could never hang a man for trying to feed his children…”

The Qunari nodded approvingly

“Then he understood that authority is a responsibility, not a privilege; a rare quality in your lords, I have observed.  We would call such a man _Basalit-an_ ; one worthy of respect.”

Aengus let out a long, slow, breath; trying to focus his attention back on the task at hand.  ‘Worthy of respect’; it felt strange that a foreigner, a heathen who seemed to care little or nothing for Ferelden’s ways, could come up with such an appropriate epitaph for his father…

He caught sight of a glint in the water, just beneath his perch.  Lowering himself, until he was flat on the rock, he slipped a hand in with patient slowness until his fingertips gently brushed the trout’s underbelly.  Just the lightest of touches, lulling it into a semi trance, until… Aengus plunged his other arm in, grabbing the fish in both hands and yanking it out the water as it flapped and struggled in his grip. He rolled onto his back, clutching the fish to his chest and letting out a triumphant laugh. Stunning it with a swift blow to the head he threw it over to the two men on the riverbank

“Now I just have to do it once more and we have the makings of a reasonable supper!”

It took another hour and a couple of good drenchings, but eventually two more sizeable trout joined their brother on the bank.  With what they had already, together with the large fruitcake Bodhan produced, they did indeed have a reasonable supper.  Despite Morrigan’s insistence that all the roots she’d gathered were edible, Alistair still sniffed suspiciously at the bowl in his hand before sampling the smallest possible spoonful

“I am eating from the same pot as you” Morrigan reminded him “If it were my intent to poison you I could find a score of different ways without placing my own life or digestion in danger; or is this the thanks I can expect for preparing a meal that does not taste of scorched smallclothes?”

Red faced, he mumbled something that might have been a ‘Thank you’ as Aengus tried not to laugh. So far, other than the need to combat the Blight, the dismal quality of Alistair’s attempts at cooking seemed to be the only thing that united them.  The stew had a pleasant, but unusual, taste. Aengus suspected some of the ingredients might be a bit ‘unorthodox’ by Fereldan standards but thriving in the Wilds no doubt required a certain creativity when it came to food and he decided not to spoil his appetite by enquiring further.

“What is it, Scrap?”

Scrapper had leapt to his feet, hackles raised and growling, staring intently at the woods the far side of the meadow.

“Darkspawn?” Leliana asked, reaching for the bow never far from her side.  Aengus shook his head, he couldn’t sense anything, but glanced over to Alistair for confirmation.

“It’s not Darkspawn…” the other Warden said, drawing his sword “but there is something out there”

Aengus could hear it now; something moving through the undergrowth with no attempt at stealth.  It made a low, constant, moaning that sounded human but had a quality that made his skin crawl as it grew louder

“Someone in pain?” Leliana whispered, not lowering her bow “Injured perhaps?”

They could just about make out the figure as it emerged from the trees, a slightly darker shape against the night.  It seemed to be limping or somehow off balance

“We won’t hurt you…” Aengus called out “Just tell us who you are”

The moaning deepened as the lurching pace increased in speed.  Out of the corner of his eye, Aengus spotted Morrigan’s hands weaving around each other, a small globe of soft red light forming between her palms in response to her muttered words. She hurled it forward and up, like a child throwing a ball, growing as it rose – the dull glow allowing them to see what staggered towards them.

It was… had been… a woman; long hair hung in thick matted clumps about it’s shoulders and a few shreds of clothing still clung to its form.  There was no way she could be alive, not with those injuries.  The moaning rose to a shriek as it stumbled towards them, a butcher’s knife raised in one mangled fist.  Leliana’s arrow knocked it off balance but it was still moving and trying to rise as a single blow from Sten’s greatword sliced through its neck; the head bouncing several yards.

Alistair scanned the treeline anxiously

“I… I think that was the only one…” He gave a small cry of alarm as something hit his feet, turning to one of disgust as he saw the thing’s head lying there and Scrapper standing in front of him panting, with an expectant look on his face.

“He… he wants to play ‘fetch’!” Aengus managed to stammer out as he burst into sudden, infectious laughter that even Morrigan couldn’t resist; Sten looked around the group of humans, laughing almost hysterically; even he had to concede, privately, that it was not unamusing and such reactions to sudden shock not unusual – even among Qunari.

“What is this thing?” he asked as the guffaws quietened down “I have not seen anything like this before.”

“We call them ‘undead’, corpses possessed by demons” Alistair told him, feeling anxiety creeping into him as the spasm of hilarity passed “but that only happens in an area where the Veil is thin, or torn…”

“Where there is one there will certainly be more” Morrigan interjected “We should burn this thing then I will set up wards around the camp…”

The mage-fire Morrigan conjured burned swift and strong, reducing the corpse to fine grey ash in minutes.  Thankfully, she passed no audible comment in response to Leliana singing the Canticle of the Departed as the fire blazed, but her expression was eloquent enough. 

With the wards in place, Alistair and Aengus agreed to take first watch as the rest of them settled down for an uneasy sleep.  Aengus couldn’t help noticing his friend was worried, a feeling he shared; he’d heard of undead, of course, but only in ghost stories and legends of old battlefields.  Seeing one this close to Redcliffe, with the countryside apparently deserted and the tales of Arl Eamon’s mysterious illness, set his imagination down some dark paths.

“Redcliffe’s got strong walls, and no-one’s ever taken the castle” Aengus tried to re-assure him “Even if there are more of these things around, the town will be safe”

Alistair nodded thoughtfully, pulling a chunk off the piece of fruitcake in his hands and tossing it to Snapper who gulped it down eagerly – pawing at his knee for more

“Have you ever been to Redcliffe?” he asked

“Only once, we went there for Connor’s Naming…” He’d just turned 11 and it had been a grand adventure; riding in state from Highever then sailing down Lake Calenhad – his first time on a ship – with Pa pointing out the notable sights as they passed, especially the soaring Tower of the Magi at Kinloch Hold; he’d never imagined anything could be so tall.  He’d begged a promise from Pa that they would visit on the way home, so he could see where all the Mages lived. 

Half the nobility of Ferelden came to Redcliffe for the event, even the 16-year-old Prince Cailan; Maric was ‘unwell’ but even Aengus couldn’t help overhearing the whispers that the King had not yet forgiven his brother-in-law for wedding an Orlesian.  The ceremony itself had been dull and he’d struggled hard not to fidget during the long choral chants and the droning voice of the Revered Mother as she passed the infant through the smoke of the Holy Censer, marking the Flaming Sword on his breast with blessed ash.  It had been made harder by Fergus whispering jokes in his ear, earning them more than one sharp glance from Ma.

The party after was much more fun; jesters and musicians entertaining the crowd of guests while mages from the Circle conjured balls of coloured light that danced in time to the music – not unlike the one Morrigan had summoned earlier, though no doubt she would sneer at such a trivial use of magic.  There was scandal too – Fergus and Cailan disappeared early in the evening; Aengus later heard they were eventually found in the hayloft of the castle stables, with the Stablemaster’s two daughters and several bottles of the Arl’s best claret.  Pa and Arl Eamon’s idea of punishment had been creative; the two hungover miscreants sent for a morning’s intensive sword-practice with the Arl’s knights. 

It was a good memory but one that belonged to another life, a life he would never get back, and the troubled expression on Alistair’s face gave him a sharp pang of guilt.  Arlessa Isolde’s pregnancy had been the thing that finally enabled her to persuade the Arl to send the boy away to the Templars.

“I’m sorry… you probably don’t remember that time as fondly as I do”

Alistair shook his head

“It’s not that… it’s…” he paused, biting his thumbnail nervously “Aengus… there’s something I have to tell you…”

###

“Wow…!” It was all Aengus could find to say.  Looking over at Alistair he was surprised not to have seen the resemblance before.  He was a little heavier-built than Cailan, his hair and eyes a slightly different colour, but apart from that there was no doubt he was King Maric’s son.  “Did Cailan know?”

Alistair shrugged and fed Scrapper another bit of cake

“Maybe… I don’t think he cared very much if he did.  I certainly never got any Satinalia presents… although I never sent him any, so perhaps that’s fair.”

“Why do you always do that?” Aengus asked, “Make a joke of things that really hurt you?”

Alistair sighed, brushing the last of the cake-crumbs off his hands.  The question was meant in friendship, he could tell, but he doubted if Aengus could understand; he was the cherished younger son of a family one hair’s-breadth away from the Crown.  The few memories Aengus had shared of his childhood had been happy ones; stories of mischief, adventure and strict but loving parents.  No-one would ever have told him it would be better if he’d been stuffed into a sack at birth and thrown in the lake…

“The first lesson I learned, I suppose…” he said eventually “They don’t beat you up so much if you’re the clown”

Aengus chewed his lip, pondering how to respond, Pa had come down hard on bullying – warning him and Fergus that any hint of abusing their rank, size or age would be met severely – but boys, especially in a castle environment, could be wild and the weakest always tempting game.  The only time Pa ever raised a hand was when he overheard him call one of the Elven serving-boys a ‘something-something knife-ear’

He’d not been able to sit down the rest of the day and had to apologise to the boy before being allowed to join the rest of the family for supper; the look of disappointment on Ma’s face worse than any thrashing…

“You don’t always have to, you know…” he reached across and took Alistair’s hand “We’re Brothers, remember?”

Alistair shook it firmly with a wry grin

“And deprive you of my witty one-liners in the face of our inevitable, painful, deaths?  I appreciate it though, Aengus… really, I do.”

Aengus became aware of Scrapper nosing at his knee, looking for ear-scratches

“What? You love me again, now that Al’s cake is done?”

Scrapper whined indignantly, of course he always loved Master – but cake was cake… a scent caught his nose, one of the Things That Shouldn’t Walk, he turned his head snarling.  Aengus got to his feet, picking up his sword and shield

“Another one, we’d better warn the others….” He gave a courtly bow “If it please your Highness”

“Oh, don’t you bloody start…” Alistair growled, snatching up his own weapons.

None of them slept well that night, a total of three shambling undead ran across the camp before sunrise – apparently by chance, and all of them were alert and on edge as they set off towards Redcliffe. They travelled largely in silence, none of them keen to speculate on what might await them, and watchful for any signs of attack.

It wasn’t until late morning that they saw others on the road; a small group of men in mismatched armour, hailing them nervously. It took Aengus a while to make out what they were saying. The men were farmers, speaking a thick local dialect with only a smattering of Trade Tongue.  Alistair could understand them better, having grown up here, and the tale they told was worse than anything Aengus had imagined.

For nights past, a host of undead emerged from the castle gates; rampaging through the town they slaughtered everyone in their path, ranks swelling with the corpses of their victims. The townsfolk fought as best they could, but each night was worse than the last and Redcliffe might not endure another. Bann Teagan, the Arl’s younger brother, and those few Redcliffe Knights who returned were doing what they could but were badly outnumbered. Of the Arl, his wife and son, there was no word...

“They say the land is cursed...” Alistair explained “...and only the Maker can save them.”

Morrigan arched an eyebrow

“Then they will be waiting for aid a _very_ long time.”

“The Maker sent us…” Leliana spoke firmly, looking directly at Aengus “We will help them… yes?”

**To be continued…**


	9. The Dead of Redcliffe - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronting the evil that assaults the town of Redcliffe and has taken control of its Castle pushes Aengus to the limit of his endurance; forcing him to face dark memories and an enemy as deadly and malicious and any Darkspawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger warnings***  
> Semi-graphic violence. Implied/referenced emotional/physical abuse  
> **************************

“Aren’t you supposed to be sharpening your sword?” Alistair asked, thumping himself down beside Aengus on the bench outside the windmill.

Aengus looked up in surprise

“What?”

Alistair took a bite from the meat pie he’d somehow located, spraying bits of pastry as he spoke

“Every adventure story I’ve read, the hero sits and stoically sharpens his sword before the big battle.  Bloody stupid really... You end up with a blade like an old bread knife...” He held out the half-eaten pie “Want some?”

Aengus shook his head, Alistair warned him about the increased appetite he could expect but he’d noticed no difference. Alistair himself was always eating, although he suspected that was probably the case even before the Joining...

“No thanks. I was just thinking...”

Now that the defences were in place, the men equipped and the oil barrels primed and ready, all they could do was wait and pray that what they had would be sufficient; time enough to think, and for Bann Teagan’s account of the Landsmeet to sink in.  There were rumours at Lothering but what Eamon’s brother told him dispelled any doubt Aengus retained about Loghain's deliberate betrayal.  Berating the Lords and Ladies of the Bannorn, with Rendon Howe at his side, threatening any who opposed or challenged him. Teagan and almost half the others left Denerim that night, unwilling to risk the new Regent’s ‘hospitality’ a moment longer than necessary.

The Bann returned to Redcliffe hoping Eamon would lend his voice and bannermen to confront this blatant usurpation; instead he found the town under assault from within its own walls, the fate of the Arl and his family unknown. A madness has descended on Ferelden as if the Blight was reaching ahead, poisoning the minds and hearts of those in its path.

“I think better with a full stomach…” Alistair mumbled around a mouthful of pie “Anything in particular?”

Aengus nodded towards the bulk of Redcliffe Castle on the crags across the river; no signs of life, not even a light or a tendril of smoke rising from a chimney to suggest any of the occupants still lived.  The seat of the Guerrins was smaller and more compact than Castle Cousland and reputedly impregnable, accessible only by a narrow bridge

“We still have to get in there, if we live through the night, and deal with whatever is causing this.  You were a Templar, any ideas?

“Not a very good one, and I never took my vows…” Alistair reminded him, wiping gravy off his chin “But it would take a powerful blood mage, or a demon, to raise these many corpses”

Neither option boded well for them and the thought seemed to cause even Alistair to lose his appetite.  He tossed the remainder of his pie to Scrapper, who took it in a single bite, and nudged Aengus in the ribs as he saw Ser Perth running down the lane towards them

“They’re coming” the Redcliffe knight warned them “Get ready…”

 ###

The dead attacked in irregular waves without any sense of purpose or strategy other than destruction. It was like the Darkspawn at the beacon tower all over again and Aengus pushed down at the sense of panic surging up in him, letting his sword and shield do the thinking. The blazing oil by itself did little to harm the creatures but many lost their footing and others stumbled over them until a barricade of burning bodies almost blocked their path – as hideous as it was effective – slowing their advance and splitting their numbers. Some of them wore the armour of Redcliffe guardsmen, wielding sword and pike with vestiges of their former skill, but most had been townsfolk or servants judging by the remnants of their garb – using whatever blade had been to hand but more often just teeth and fingers.

Aengus kept reminding himself these creatures were already dead; that he was hacking down demon-possessed corpses not women, children and old men. It helped, a little, but he still felt sick. The men of Redcliffe had it worse, many of the dead were known to them and they lost more than one who froze when confronted with the face of a friend, relative or lover. In such breathing spaces as the attacks allowed they threw the bodies of their own dead onto the blazing barricade with a swift prayer commending them to the Maker’s mercy.  It was harsh but practical, no-one wanted to risk them rising.  Aengus’s arms and shoulders ached from wielding his blade almost constantly for hours, even the hardest training had never prepared him for the reality of prolonged combat.  With no further undead appearing down the lane from the castle he began to allow himself the hope that the worst of the battle had passed.

The panicked runner informing them that the dead were rising from the harbour and attacking the town square dispelled that hope.  With a heavy sigh and a resigned look at Alistair and Leliana he unsheathed his sword again and they ran off to join the others…

The lane had concentrated the undead assault on a single point, making it easier to hold them at bay.  In the market square before the Chantry they had room to spread out and swarm any man incautious enough to get too far from his fellows.  Aengus saw Murdoch, the mayor, go down screaming with half a dozen of them worrying at him with their teeth.  Unable to do anything for the man he held his ground, always aiming for the neck or the head.  Decapitation or cleaving the skull was the only sure way of felling these things.  The flames, the barricades and the relentless hunger of the creatures woke memories still fresh and raw; as the fight wore on he couldn’t tell if this was Redcliffe or if he was still at the summit of the Tower of Ishal.  How much longer would it be before he was overwhelmed and felt them ripping at his flesh? 

He turned fast, sword swinging to smash the head of the beast coming up on his flank – only to have it expertly turned by the other man’s shield

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Alistair exclaimed, his eyes bright against his blood-stained face “Calm down… I think we’ve done it…”

No more of the undead were shambling into the square and one or two of the men tried to raise a ragged cheer which their comrades did not pick up.  There were still hours to go before dawn and they couldn’t afford to slacken their watch.  Morrigan’s magefire made short work of incinerating the piled corpses while a few of the womenfolk ventured out of the Chantry to bring much needed food and drink to the men.  Plain bread and small-beer had never tasted so good.

As the grey morning twilight slowly lightened, more of the women and children emerged; seeking fathers, husbands, brothers and lovers, shedding tears of joy and grief.  Aengus sat on the steps of the Chantry, exhaustion deep in his bones.  Sten sat beside him, jolting him out of the doze he was slipping into

“Perhaps this was not such a distraction…” The Qunari conceded. Aengus gave him a sideways glance and a faint smile, aware that this was probably as close he would ever get to an apology.

“These are the people I’m sworn to protect, Sten… and the Darkspawn aren’t the only enemy we’ll have to fight before this is done” He glanced down at what Sten held in his hand, a cake of oatmeal and dried fruit, feeling his stomach rumble… no-one had given him a cake yet… “Where did you get that?”

“A woman gave it to me, then she kissed me on the cheek…” Sten frowned and took a bite, then another “I have not tasted anything like this before. Is it a delicacy of your people?”

Aengus laughed

“You could say that.  They sell them at two for a penny in most bakers.  Old Nan used to…”  Dammit, he could feel his eyes stinging again.  Old Nan in the kitchens, promising to bake him some if he gave her a few moments peace.

“This ‘Old Nan’, she was your Tamassran?” Sten asked.  Humans never ceased to confuse him; they changed their roles as easily as you might change a shirt but amidst all their chaos some things felt strangely familiar

“She was my nurse when I was small…” he swallowed down hard, forcing the rising grief back into his gut. He had to keep himself in control “She was killed… with all the others…”

Sten gave a deep rumble of disapproval.  Violence against a Tamassran was unthinkable, any who dared such an act would long for death before the end.  He had to admit this young, volatile, human might be right about one thing, there were more enemies than the Blight to be faced here.  Silently he broke off half the cake and handed it to Aengus who accepted it with a grateful nod as Bann Teagan approached.

“Mother Hannah is going to say a prayer of thanksgiving…” he informed them “then, afterwards, I need to speak to you in private.  Meet me up at the windmill.”

###

It was a bad plan, they were all agreed on that, even Bann Teagan thought so - but he was determined to go alone with the Arlessa as she insisted.  Despite her near hysteria and avowals of ignorance Aengus couldn’t help feeling Arlessa Isolde far more than she told – there was no way she and her son could have remained untouched by the living dead within the castle unless they were in some way connected to this vague ‘evil’ or were being kept safe for some purpose of its own.  He also noticed how quickly her tears and pleading slipped into visible contempt when she realised who Alistair was…

The one useful piece of information the Arlessa gave them was that a mage was involved, an infiltrator in the household and the one responsible for poisoning the Arl – acting on Teryn Loghain’s orders.  Aengus couldn’t stop brooding over this. Eamon had fallen sick well before Ostagar; he couldn’t be sure of the dates in his head, but it must have been around the same time Howe betrayed his father.  Cailan’s closest allies, and the two strongest voices in the Landsmeet, removed from the scene; regardless of whether the King’s death had been planned as well, the trap had been well laid…

They made their way carefully along the narrow, low-ceilinged, passage in single file.  Most castles had something like this, an escape route of last-resort for the lord and his family – like the one Duncan had pushed him along as Ma fought to buy them every second of time she could.  If he closed his eyes he could almost smell the stink of smoke, blood and shit that clung to him as he fled like a rat down the sewer.  It should have been him; if he’d been smarter, or quicker it would have been – meeting Howe’s treachery with sword in hand while Ma, and Oranna, and Oren… and Sophia… made their way to safety…

_It should have been me…_

Alistair led the way, he was the only one of them who knew the layout of the interior and would be able to quickly orient them when they reached the other end of the passage.  He remembered Eamon telling him about a secret passage once and for days afterwards he’s spent almost every waking hour searching the cellars and basements to find the entrance; earning him more than one flogging and a night in the kennels when he emerged, filthy and stinking, from whatever drain or sewer had seemed like a promising candidate.  The Arl might have chuckled into his beard at the sight but the Arlessa had been less amused.  His escapades had only stopped when she threatened to make him live with the pigs, seeing as he was determined to act like one.  That scared him; the castle porkers were huge, voracious, hogs that made short work of the kitchen refuse thrown to them…

He’d been ten the day the Arl called him into his study.  That was a rare treat, it might mean a story – or possibly even a present from one of his trips to Denerim – instead, Arl Eamon told him he was being sent to the Templars.  He tried to make it sound like an adventure, that he would learn to fight demons and apostates like the knights in the stories.  Alistair was ten, not stupid, he knew the Templars was where you sent unwanted bastards – if they were lucky enough not to be drowned at birth – and that the ones in Redcliffe spent more time in the Chantry, making sure no-one stole from the poor-box, than they did in hunting down demons and the Witches of the Wilds

_And now I’ve got one sleeping a few yards from me… lucky me…_

It was the first time, maybe the only time, he lost his temper – screaming and shouting at the Arl; desperate to break something he’d ripped the little image of Andraste from round his neck and stamped on it.  It was only a cheap thing, made of tin and glass, but it had belonged to his mother – the only thing he ever had of her.  Arl Eamon said nothing; just looked a bit sad as the Templar Knight-Captain led him away struggling and swearing.  That night, in a strange inn on the road to Kinloch Hold, he’d put his hand to his throat to touch the amulet for comfort and remembered what he’d done.  He still recalled the sour taste of the pillow-corner he stuffed in his mouth, so the Knight-Captain wouldn’t hear him cry…

“We’re in the cells under the south range…” he whispered gleefully as they emerged into a low vaulted chamber, bad memories briefly dispelled “I _knew_ it…”

“Your old bedroom, perchance?” Morrigan asked, picking a strand of cobweb from her shoulder

“Only when I was lucky…” Alistair growled in response

“So where do we go from here…?” Aengus rubbed at his temples. He’d sounded sharper than intended but his head was beginning to pound from the close, stale, air of the passage and the last thing he needed was Alistair and Morrigan setting off at each other again.  Alistair closed his eyes briefly, recalling the layout, he’d always had a good memory for places…

“There’s a range of cells this way that lead to a store-room then up into the kitchens… we can get to the Great Hall from there easily…”

Aengus held up his hand for silence as they got close to the door.  They could hear it faintly echoing, the growling of the dead and someone crying for help…

###

“Maker!!! Aengus… can you hear me?  What in the Void’s got into you…?”

Aengus had no idea why Alistair sounded so alarmed, or why Sten was gripping him so tightly round the chest – pinning his arms to his sides   They’d reached the cellars, he remembered, found some of the dead things trying to break into a prison cell.  There’d been a man in there, scrawny and terrified, but then… what? 

“I’m alright Alistair, I just…  what… what happened?” he wriggled in Sten’s increasingly uncomfortable embrace “Can you let me go… please?”

“Our people call it Asala-saar…” the Qunari muttered disapprovingly, gradually loosening his grip “the rage that can possess a warrior with an untrained mind.”

A whimpering sob caught his ear and Aengus turned to see Leliana tending to the mage who huddled, crying, in a corner of the stinking cell. The man’s face and hands were smeared with fresh blood…

“You went berserk… right after he told us who he was…” Alistair hesitated, he could quite happily have smashed Jowan’s head off the wall on learning that he was the one responsible for starting this mess, but something just seemed to break in Aengus.  He’d hurled himself at the smaller man, howling incoherently, driving him to the ground and hammering his fists into the Mage’s head and body without pause.  It had taken him and Sten all their strength to haul Aengus away before he killed him with his bare hands…

“I… I… d-d-didn’t kn-know…” Jowan wailed “Oh M-m-maker I… I… I wanted to fix things b-b-but I j-j-j-just m-m-made it wo-worse…”

“That’s for certain…” Alistair snapped, earning a sharp glance from Leliana

“I… I don’t remember…” Aengus muttered, almost to himself, looking down at his scraped and bloody hands.  There were images and flashes – but like he was looking at someone else through the wrong end of a spyglass…

“We can discuss it later…” Leliana butted in, the sudden eruption of violence from the young Warden had unsettled her more than anything else they’d encountered in this place of madness but now was not the time “First we must find out what’s going on.”

“L-Loghain said he could m-m-make it all right with the Ci-ci-circle…” Jowan buried his head in his hands with another sob “E-every-everything’s a m-m-mess!”

Leliana took a deep breath to calm herself. The little mage seemed too… well… pathetic to be the real source of everything that was going on.  A blood-mage powerful enough to raise this many undead would certainly have no trouble removing himself from this cell, but he clearly knew something of what had caused this and getting him even more scared and confused wasn’t going to help them

“No-one is going to hit you again…” she promised, in her gentlest voice “But you have to tell us everything…”

Jowan’s story – told in between sobs, snuffles and fearful glances at Aengus – seemed hard to believe but Alistair knew it was far from impossible.  He’d paid enough attention in training to know that the demons of the Fade were drawn to the untrained mind of a child with magic like insects to a candle flame – although that was a weak analogy, insects couldn’t take control of the candle and use it to burn down the house.  The Knight-Instructors had drummed into them, over and over again, how vital it was that any Mage-child be located as soon as possible and brought to the Circle; to be trained by experienced Mages under the watchful eye of the Templars.  It seemed cruel, but it was as much for their protection as well; there were plenty tales of fledgling Mages falling prey to angry or superstitious mobs.

Once under the care of the Circle a child could learn to strengthen their will and control their powers, to recognize and resist the temptations of the Fade, but without skilled and experienced guidance…  The Arlessa’s determination to protect her son might have doomed him; if he were possessed or, worse, a full-fledged Abomination… He picked up his sword.  This wasn’t something he wanted to think about, not until they knew for sure…

“We have to get to the Great Hall…” he said with a look that dared the others to challenge him. Aengus nodded, anything to get out of this stinking dungeon, needing to hit something that could fight back

“Leave the Mage here… he’ll be safer… and we may need him later.”

###

“I’m not going to kill a child… Don’t… don’t even suggest that…” Aengus ran his hands through his hair, breathing heavily, the image of Oren with his throat cut brutal and sharp in his minds eye.  He’d read about Abominations, warped beyond human appearance by the demon corrupting their flesh. One of those he could have cut down without a second thought, but Connor was still there; frightened and bewildered in those moments when either the demon released its grip or he briefly found the strength to resist. “There has to be another way… there has to be…”

“He’s possessed, the demon might not give us any choice…” Alistair said with a sick feeling in his stomach.  They were talking about Arl Eamon’s son, almost family, but the demented show they’d witnessed in the Hall and the ease with which the demon – speaking through Connor – had turned Teagan and the surviving guards into it’s pawns, was proof beyond doubt that the boy was possessed by a powerful and malevolent force.  The Templars and the Chantry had always been firm, a possessed person had to die before they could wreak any harm, but it still felt wrong.  He turned to Jowan with an angry glare “…and if you mention ‘blood magic’ once more you’ll get the business end of my sword right up your… Raw Fade.”

“Aengus is right; please… tell me we’re not event considering this?” Leliana pleaded, looking around them “There must be another solution?”

“Is there no other way to do this ritual?” Aengus asked.  Jowan chewed his bottom lip nervously

“It… it would take Lyrium, a l-lot of Lyrium” The mage stammered, aware that any chance of his survival depended on being able to fix something of the mess he’d helped to create “A-and more mages…”

“But we may not have the time…” Arlessa Isolde pleaded “I am willing to do this… please… why will you not let me?”

“Because no-one else is going to die… Not you and not… not your son…” His temper subsided as quickly as it flared, and Aengus felt his voice breaking “I… I’ve seen too many innocents die.”

Bann Teagan placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, speaking quietly

“Our choices are limited…  Connor is himself right now, but once the demon is back in control this nightmare will start again and we may not be able to stop it.”

“The Circle…!” Alistair exclaimed triumphantly, and they turned to look at him “Kinloch Hold is less than a day’s ride from here, and we have to go there anyway…”

Teagan nodded thoughtfully.  First Enchanter Irving had the reputation of being a decent man; he would be sure to agree, even if it were just for the benefits the Circle might gain from the favour of the Guerrins.

“What about Connor in the meantime…?” he asked aloud.  Jowan stepped forward, flinching at the hard stare the Bann gave him

“I… I can keep him quite for a couple of days, I think.  There are ways… not involving blood magic” he added hastily. 

“You’ll be watched…” Teagan warned him “Any hint of betrayal and it will not end well for you.”

“We should leave as soon as we can” Aengus said, feeling a deep relief that they at least had a thread of hope “We’ll need horses though...”

“Ser Perth will see to that” Teagan assured them with a faint smile “You should get a few hours sleep before you ride off.  It’s been a hard night but, with Andraste’s blessing, we shall see some peace at the end of it.”


End file.
